


Be the change you want to see

by wanderingaddict



Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other, minor F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingaddict/pseuds/wanderingaddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Doug leaves for Riley's funeral, Ste decides to close an old chapter in his life. For Brendan, it opens a new one... one that actually might get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been kicking around for a while. It's a mix of the show plot and different directions I'd rather have seen.

\------------

(Brendan and Ste)

Ste tapped his shoe against the stone and shifted his weight from one side to the other. This seemed like a bad idea – but then there had been a lot of bad ideas in the last two weeks, not all of them his own. He took a step forward, then spun around and stalked over to the railing. The iron was cool, still wet from the rain that morning. Even the air had held onto the damp, adding yet one more mark to the growing tally of dreary days this past month. His lip curled. Wrestling with his decision at home had been bad enough. The thought of changing his mind on the doorstep was maybe worse.

More a creature of impulse than anything else, his simple irritation was enough to spur Ste forward. Resolute, he marched over to the colorful blue door and rapped smartly. After a good five minutes passed he rapped again..

“Steven.” The Irishman who opened it glanced him up and down. “Thought I’d seen the last of you. Least, for a while.” His cane clacked as he hobbled backwards, though not far enough to allow Ste into the entry. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Doug’s gone.” Ste waited, expecting what, exactly, he did not know, but Brendan had affected his usual nonchalance. “To America,” he added after a pause. “Flat’s lonely. Could do with a bit of company.” He tilted his head down, tensing his mouth just slightly, his eyes flicking to Brendan’s. It was a look that had often worked before.

Whether it was the look or a fit of pique, Brendan shrugged and limped backwards. Ste was quick to follow, pulling his hands from the pockets of his light jacket. “Right, so what were you doing that took so long to answer the door?”

“I was sitting down to eat.” Brendan waved his free hand at the kitchen. “You had lunch yet?”

“Not yet, was about all morning.” Not true, but then, a little white lie had never stopped Ste before. He followed the Irishman to the counter, where a plate with two thick sarnies waited. “Both of those for you then? Good to know the Brady appetite hasn’t changed, ‘spite everything else.”

Brendan looked down at his plate. He’d made two sandwiches out of routine more than hunger. He took half of the smaller rasher and pushed the plate over to Ste. “Brady appetites are always strong. But maybe I knew I was gonna have company.”

That last part was actually just to fuck with the lad, and the sharpness to Ste’s glance was reward enough. “Just joking, Steven. Eat.”

Ste tipped his rasher towards Brendan. “Ta.”

Barely one bite and the man was pulling both sandwiches away and opening them up. “Where’s Cheryl then?” he asked, opening the fridge. Finding the cheese, Ste moved on to a drawer Brendan had never opened and then to a cabinet Brendan wasn’t sure he’d even noticed before.

“Dunno.” Amused by Ste’s near-automatic shuffling about his kitchen, the Irishman crossed his arms and watched Ste sort through spice containers until he found something he liked. “Refuses to speak to me. Probably back home in Belfast, would be my guess.” Though his tone was flippant, Brendan’s eyes were hooded and his gaze low.

Frowning, the brunet backed off the subject of Cheryl. “Joel?”

The Irishman’s jaw clicked as he watched Ste grate cheese over the rashers. Wasn’t sure the point of that, it was a simple rasher, but then the man also ran a successful deli. Finally Brendan wrinkled his nose.

“Little Foxy got something caught in his craw. Made him sick. Ran into the woods with that McQueen lass.” The Irishman turned contemplative for a moment, rather liking the turn of phrase he’d used there.

Ste cracked a smile. “Done a runner with Myra then?”

To his credit, he did get a huff from his surly host, though it was followed by a frown. “Best head on her shoulders in that group. He’d do worse than her.”

Preoccupied with pulling the plastic off apparently unopened spice containers, Ste scoffed. “Theresa ain’t so bad. She’s always going on about Kathleen-Angel, isn’t she? She’s a good mom, least it seems.”

Again, Brendan studied Ste from the side of his eyes. It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps Ste’d never put together the truth of that night Calvin Valentine had died. “All them McQueens has got something wrong with them, Steven. Some are just better at hiding it than others.” Just because the others hadn’t gone to the psych ward with Mercedes didn’t mean they were any less crazy. In the Irishman’s opinion, the thieving tramps should’ve worn out their welcome in the town long, long ago. He almost drew breath to say as much, but decided against it. Brendan watched Ste dust pinches of a couple somethings over both sandwiches. His mouth was watering and he didn’t care enough about the McQueens and their drama to interrupt his lunch. “Besides, it’s easy to be a good mom when you got your own mother and a house full of cousins to take care of your brat,” he finished lamely.

“Yeah I ‘spose a full house makes it easy. Always been easier when me and Ames both had someone to help with our Leah and Lucas.” Ste finally returned his rasher, and if Brendan was honest about it, the new version smelled much better than whatever he’d made. They both dug in, the Irishman closing his eyes in delight at the wash of flavor through his mouth. Ste chewed a few times, looking around. “Flat must feel right empty with them all gone.”

“You’re the most I’ve talked to anyone in two days.” Dismissing the younger man’s look of concern, Brendan stuffed his mouth with a second bite. He grunted, with several noises of appreciation following. Brendan waved at the spices Ste’d added, whatever they were. He swallowed mightily. “Didn’t know we had those. Good trick.”

“Gotta lotta tricks, Brendan.” With a glint to his eye, the young brunet twirled the spice shaker round his fingers, catching it on the backswing with ease and before setting it on the counter. “Could show you more, if I were ‘round more often.” Ste shot him a cheeky grin, but the Irishman didn’t respond. Cute as the lad could be, Brendan had been set on working himself into a fine funk before he’d been interrupted. Most of his thoughts still lingered in that black state. The man stared at the breakfast bar, chewing slowly, a distant look in his eyes.

Cheryl, his sister, was gone. Who could say when she’d be back? She’d seen him covered in blood, stripped to the waist and sawing through bones. She’d caught him red-handed, literally.  
Joel, his… well he didn’t know what to call Joel, but he’d fled before Cheryl even. Yeah, the kid had called him a couple times, which was more than he could say about anyone else, but Joel had still given up everything to be with that McQueen girl. Worse, Brendan couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that Theresa had something to do with the lot of it. 

Then, there was the person no one talked about. At least, not to his face. Lynnsey, probably his truest friend, gone. Not that he’d much of a choice in that. Ste hadn’t mentioned her when he commented about the place being empty, as though not talking about the dead kept the pain away. All that actually did was mask it, but then the people of Hollyoaks loved their little masks. Letting themselves play at being bigger, tougher than they really were. Pretending to find meaning in whatever little fling had come their way that week.

It suddenly occurred to him that he was no different. In fact, maybe the only person who’d never worn a mask was Lynns. The irony of her being gone now hit him hard enough that a wry grin poked through his malaise.

Brendan glanced at his phone, scrolled down through his contacts, entertaining the idea of calling her. To hear her voice, even if it was a recording. Maybe to even just leave a message about Cheryl, or that Ste had just taken half of a lunch the Irishman didn’t even feel like eating. Hearing that would have gotten her attention instantly, both because there was never a time he wasn’t hungry and because he was with Ste again. If only for the moment.

But calling her would be stupid. She was gone, and never coming back. Besides, he wasn’t even sure that he wanted to be talked out of… well.

Brendan’s eyes focused and slid to Ste’s pert bottom as the lad cleared the counter and bustled over to the sink. A taut band of elastic peeked from under a pair of tight blue jeans. Ones that were actually pulled up, for once, giving definition to Ste’s butt and not leaving much to the imagination. The Irishman didn’t even need to see beneath them to know that the elastic band sticking out was for a pair of tight, speckled briefs that hugged the curves of Ste’s cheeks, the cup of his balls, equally well. It wasn’t exactly the Hollyoaks-native’s usual wear – they were items that drew attention to certain parts, they were clothes that could make a man feel good about the looks he was getting. They were also pricey, new, and not something found in the thrift stores that council rats usually frequented.

Not that Ste could hardly be called a council rat anymore. He had his own business. Moved with more confidence. Dressed in something quite a bit better than those shit trackies Brendan still saw him wearing on the weekends.

Now he’d even gotten some sun. His skin’d caught a golden cast to it, and the shirt he wore framed what slight bit of muscle his skinny bones could keep. As a whole, he looked good – a far cry from his typical hand-me-downs and donated shirts that were ten years out of date. The Irishman watched the man move, appreciating the view.

Far cry from the usual indeed. His cool blue eyes snapped up to Ste’s face. “Got somethin’ going on today, Steven?” he queried, his tone deliberately conversational.

Ste looked at Brendan quizzically. “No. Why, somethin’ up?” he asked, his brow furrowed.  


Brendan weighed his words… and the brunet’s reaction. “Was just thinking you look good.” He paused for effect, letting the man see him rake his eyes across his body. When Brendan’s gaze reached his hips he curled his lip just slightly, in what may or may not have been a bite. Then, meeting Ste’s gaze, he finished, “Steven.”

The flush of pleasure on Ste’s face was genuine enough, even if the Irishman hadn’t managed to catch the younger man up earlier. He ran a finger across the rim of his plate, affecting nonchalance. “There’s no occasion?” he asked again.

“Just felt like this today, is all,” Ste shrugged, busying himself with needless tasks. Tasks like coming around the counter to clear Brendan’s plate, and leaning deep into the churlish, dark-haired man’s personal space in the process. He pulled a small, pouty smile. “Ta, though.” This time the bounce to his step was much more noticeable.

Unable to resist that kind of lure, Brendan stroked his fingertips against the edge of the counter. When he looked up again, his face was set. “So,” he began, his tone nonchalant, “How long is Douglass gone back ‘cross the pond?”

Ste shrugged. “More’n a week, maybe more after that.” He ran the faucet. “Carl’s got something goin’ on for Riley’s funeral. Wanted Doug ‘round for that. His parents live ‘round those parts as well. He might be a while.”

At no point did Ste turn around. Brendan’s mouth worked once. “You didn’t go with him?”

The man glanced back at him, his tone more confident. “Riley weren’t my friend. Liked the guy an’ all, but it were always ‘bout him and Doug. ‘Sides, I think Doug needed time apart.”

Brendan’s eyes snapped to the back of Ste’s head. “Aw, Steven. Say it isn’t so. Douglass has a problem and left you all alone again?” His tone was more caustic than necessary. The glare he got from Ste was proof enough of that.

The Irishman grimaced and dialed it back. “But I’m sure he’s… thinking of you,” or whatever, Brendan finished under his breath. _Most likely just laying ‘bout and moaning over nothing_. For all that he tried, he honestly couldn’t think of a time that he hadn’t seen the American agonizing about something petty and inconsequential.

He didn’t say that last part aloud. It was hard enough to resist needling Ste about little Douglass as it was – and he’d gathered enough to figure out a bit of what was on the younger man’s mind. At least, what had been going through his head when he’d dressed that morning.

And, as much as it pained the Irishman to do it, he was going to have to defend the spineless little Yank to his boyfriend. Fiancé. Whatever the two imagined themselves to be together. Brendan scowled. 

“If you’re not doing nothing, there’s a game on,” said lad chirped. Lifting the whiskey bottle Brendan had left on the counter that morning, he waggled his eyebrows. “You like a drink, I like seeing Chester get beat. What’d you say?”

“Ever a man of your id, eh Steven?” The Irishman pushed himself up, bracing himself against the counter to hide the pain that shot through his legs. He took another measured look at the younger man. “You know what? Sure. Why not. Maybe I’ll finally learn what a touchdown is.”  


“Doooh,” Ste honked, shooting into the living room and grabbing the clicker for the telly. “That’s _American_ football, that is, Brendan! They’ve not got those in proper games!”

“Oh? I didn’t know there was a difference.” Brendan lowered himself onto the couch, leaning into the armrest. His tone was so carefully bland that Ste finally caught on.

“Right, you’re just having a go at me!” Found out, the Irishman had the grace to smirk. Ste laughed, his face flushed, and started in about the differences in the American version that he’d learned from his American boyfriend. The man he was supposed to be with right now, the man Brendan had pushed Ste towards multiple times – even though every push left him swayed and exhausted. Even this, this game of letting Ste stay, was a ploy to get him back in… into another man’s arms. The corners of Brendan’s mouth twisted downwards.

Worse was how pleased Ste looked as he cleared a space on the table for the whiskey, because he knew he’d been winning the hands he’d played thus far. The Irishman understood full-well what the lad was up to. He always did. Maybe he rarely – if ever – knew why, to be sure, but he always understood. Why Ste ‘d fought with the depressive Yank Brendan had no idea, and why the younger man thought to craft this little encounter, set himself up for a moment of intimacy while his whatever was out of town, Brendan couldn’t fathom. But he did understand. In this moment, as Ste swaggered over and asked if there was room on the couch – pointing specifically at the quilt piled beside the Irishman and ignoring the two seats that were free – he did understand. The younger man’d created a moment of confidence, a cute little space of warm fuzzies where it was just him, the Irishman, and this near-tangible fixation they had with each other.

And, God, it galled to burst that bubble.

Brendan stared up at Ste. A not-so-subtle bit of excitement played on the brunet’s face. Of course… there was nothing that said he had to do it right away.

He was tired. The air was chilly. The couch was a good place to be, and having a warm, young body beside him was tempting. Brendan chewed his lower lip. “Suit yourself,” he muttered, throwing the quilt aside. Angry as he was at giving in, there was a small part of him that felt damn good when Ste plopped down beside him.

Soon, he told himself, Soon. After he had a bit of something for himself. Just a taste of Ste, to help him through the tough times. Distract him from his aching body. From hunting down Walker, or dealing with Lynns – or what she’d left behind, more like. Sorting Joel. Sorting Cheryl. Those people that…

He didn’t want to think about it. He turned on the telly instead. Ste settled in closer. Brendan glanced at him, but again… he’d sort it. In a bit. No harm in taking this now. The lad was even kind enough to pour him a whiskey.

It wasn’t until Ste handed him his third glass that he’d realized how dark the sky had gotten. Or that his left arm was spread out over the back of the couch, and his pretty, blue-eyed… ex… had curled up inside it. Brendan curled the fingers of that left hand, just slightly enough that the inside of them brushed against Ste’s bare arm. That he didn’t go further was a testament to his control.

And he was a master of control. A good thing, because if he wasn’t he’d be forced to end this immediately.

As it stood, it was probably better to swallow that bitter pill sooner, rather than later. The Irishman had no doubts about why Ste had been sousing him up. For all that the younger man appeared content to rest his head on Brendan’s chest and leave it at that, the Irishman could feel the weight of the unspoken thoughts in Ste’s head. Partly because of the tension he had occasionally let slip during the visit, partly because it was uncommon for him to be so reserved.

He had to know. Like anything related to Ste, he had to know. Giving in only meant he might figure out how to help the lad get back with his weenie boyfriend. Brendan worked his mouth, wishing he could remember where the hell he’d last seen his chewing gum. “Something on your mind, Steven?” he finally asked.

Any hope for a quick fix dwindled in the time it took Ste to reply. “Been thinking.” He didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off the muted telly. His body heat emanated through Brendan’s light tee. When he didn’t say anything more, Ste plowed on. “’Bout what you said the other day. ‘Bout takin’ bullets for me.” His eyebrows lifted, but he made no move to meet Brendan’s stare. Or push away. When he spoke again, it was with care, and something of a stammer. “There’s… there’s naught I can do to repay you.”

“Don’t… Steven.” Brendan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want payment from you.”

Ste was quite for a while. “You bought me flat, Brendan. To keep me from being evicted.” The Irishman winced, wishing he’d never let that slip. Here he’d been hoping that the Hollyoaks native would forget. Ste slid a hand over Brendan’s belly. After it became clear that Brendan was not going to acknowledge it, the brunet spoke again. “You faced Walker for me.”

“It – Steven – I had to, Steven. It was my fault.” _The whole damn thing was my fault_ , Brendan added silently.

“No one else has stood by me like that. Thought I was _worth_ something like that.” Ste pushed himself up, twisting to meet the Irishman’s gaze, which seemed to struggle with meeting Ste’s.

“I’m sure Douglass had something-,” Brendan began, his eyes flicking momentarily to Ste’s but darting away just as quickly. Ste interrupted him.

“Doug’s done a lot of things,” the younger man asserted, “but it were you that gave him the push, weren’t it? It were you that gave us the loan, and it were you that fixed the bid on the deli.” His dark blue eyes focused on Brendan’s pale ones. “Doug’s done a lot right by me. But so have you, Brendan.”

The Irishman cringed. “I’ve done even more wrong. I’ve hurt you, Steven. Bad. Real bad.”

Struck, Ste’s jaw fell slack. Then he shook his head, his eyebrows narrowing. “I’ve hurt you, Brendan.”

“Not like that. Not like what I’ve done.” He could feel the weight of Ste’s gaze. Nothing in the room mattered, save for the man he could not look at.

“You’ve also saved my life.” The smaller man’s words tore at something Brendan didn’t know could bleed.

Blanching, Brendan could only mumble, “It ain’t something you should be thanking me for.”

Ste watched the dark-haired Irishman look everywhere in the room but at him. His gaze roved over the bandages on Brendan’s face, the old bruises, the cuts and scabs. The extra weight he had gained these last few months. Beneath it all, the gruff exterior, the mustache, the anger – beneath it all he was achingly handsome. And vulnerable. And alone.

He pushed himself up, tilting his head. “But what if I want to thank you?” he asked, leaning over the Irishman. The smell of whiskey and old sweat filled his nose.

When no response came, the Hollyoaks native decided to chance it. Ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the man beneath him, he pressed his lips to Brendan’s - and was rewarded by a near-instant response. The pursed mouth melted, his lips parted and for a moment – a beautiful moment – the pale Irishman was all gentle give, soft flesh and full of heart-stopping passion. It was a reminder of the thrill, the excitement, the deliberateness to Brendan’s every move. That eager lust that Ste had yet to find a match for in any other man. He moved his mouth against the mustache, against the Irishman’s chin, desperately seeking more.

At first Brendan’s mouth was just as ready, but then his brow furrowed and he struggled to pull away. Ste followed, pulling another heady kiss from the man before Brendan wrenched his mouth away. “No – Steven – Douglass…”

“- Is in America. And he – he never…” Ste choked. “He left, telling me to figure me own self out. I don’t even know if he’s coming back.” Something terrible welled up in his throat, so he tried a different track, one where he could actually speak. He took a deep breath, patting his fingers against the Irishman’s chest. “Look, Brendan – just let me do this for you. Forget Doug. Forget Walker. Forget the rest of the world and just let me… let me do this.”

Again his lips found Brendan’s, and for a moment he had the Irishman reaching up, clasping him close. Responding. “Steven,” the man breathed. Ste refused him the chance. He was on him again, heart racing, heat pooling in his groin at the feel of Brendan spreading himself beneath him. “Steven!” Brendan gasped, tearing the younger man off his mouth. They stared at each other, chests heaving.

Brendan broke first. “I ain’t about to let you do something you’re gonna regret.” His voice was soft. He couldn’t hold Ste’s stare.

“I’m only gonna regret it if you say no!” Fire seemed to blossom somewhere inside the brunet. He swung his arms out, let them flop uselessly to his sides. “Of all the times, Brendan! Of all the times to be all – all – all Brendany!” Ste gestured disdainfully at the man beneath him. “You’ve made it clear you’ve not given up on me. You know I want this, you can feel it whenever we touch! It were you that said you always know what’s going on in here!” His tirade ended with an emphatic tap of two fingers to his breast. “So you know what’s in here, right Brendan? You know what it is, you know what this means to me!”

Ste held the dark-haired man’s gaze, his blue eyes wide and unblinking. When Brendan didn’t say anything, he softened, leaning into the man below him.

“I need to do this, Brendan. I need to…” he trailed off, shifting to press his hardening bulge against Brendan’s erection. “If I don’t, I’ll never - If Doug and I marry, and you - and I haven’t…” A roll of his hips had them both sucking in deep breaths. Against the Irishman’s hot mouth, Ste finished with a plea. “Don’t say no. Please.”

Lesser men would have crumbled. Their hands would have clasped Ste’s pert bottom and ground their hips into him, they would have seized his inviting mouth and thrust their tongue to the back of his throat. As it stood, the dark-haired Irishman Ste had pinned beneath him was hard-pressed to resist his urge to give in. He could feel the sickening desire well up in his gut, his face twisting with hunger, with pain, even as his lips blindly sought Ste’s mouth. God, he knew he should push the younger man away, keep him safe from the poison that coursed in his veins, but at the same time… at the same time, it was hard to be strong when someone so pliant, so pretty, so perfect was determined to get him to deepen the kiss, was grinding his dick into his crotch. One sharp thrust of Ste’s hips was enough to make the Irishman’s mouth snap open, just for a second, and then Ste had his tongue in there, testing and teasing, drawing Brendan out of his thoughts and strictly into the moment.

Anyone would buckle with in the face of such pleasure, Brendan reasoned. So he gave in, for a moment, feeling the softest parts of Ste, the hidden parts that only a lover got to see. Savory kisses and tender touches, each one equally addictive. As much as he relished the taste of the man, though, this couldn’t last. Brendan had already decided months prior that he was going to see Steven happy – and he knew for a fact that it would not happen with him.

Brady blood flowed in his veins, after all. He was toxic. All he ever did was fuck up the lives of those around him, and he’d be damned if he didn’t stop Ste before the lad hurt himself again.

Sweet as the kisses were, they made it hard to think. “Steven,” Brendan whispered, wrenching himself away from the younger man’s mouth. Ste continued to seek him, however, maneuvering around the Irishman’s sharp nose and almost finding his mark again. Only a quick tilt of his forehead saved Brendan from being pulled into oblivion again. The mustached Irishman rallied. “Steven!”

When he forced the brunet away, it was gentle, but with finality, one hand on the man’s shoulder while the other rested at the base of his throat. The look on Ste’s face, desperate, searching, was every bit as poignant and memorable as the first time Brendan had held him. The first time he’d made him come in his hand. Anything could ruin this moment: gripping his throat, a knock to the jaw, throwing the man back and letting him hit the floor. Screaming at him to go. It would be easy to ruin this moment and let his poison destroy the relationship forever… or at least until the next time Ste came around, looking lost and alone. The Irishman’s left hand moved up to Ste’s chin, feeling the stubble, the warmth, the tipping of the man’s head into his palm.

But Ste acted first. Leaning into Brendan’s chest, he pressed his lips to the dark-haired man’s open mouth once more. This time it wasn’t with his usual hunger, however; this time it was a simple peck, quick and delicate, to one side of Brendan’s lips. Then it came again, towards the middle, polite and impossibly gentle.

Brendan didn’t know that he’d been with anyone, other than Ste, who had done that for him. Kissed him the way he wooed them. Gave back _exactly_ what he gave them. Other than Ste.

When the lad pulled away, Brendan stared at him through heavily lidded eyes. The palm on Ste’s jaw slunk around to the back of his head. If this meant that the younger man would finally stay away… Brendan found his voice. “Just for tonight, Steven.” It tore at him to allow even that much, and yet it was all Ste needed to hear. All the Irishman needed to hear, himself, for that matter.

Ste pushed forward, tearing at the Irishman, with Brendan just as eager in his own devouring of the young man’s mouth. They were all teeth and lips, Brendan’s soft mustache and Ste’s coarse stubble, joined in an act born out of hunger, loneliness, and the search for something not yet found. 

Anything might have been easier than the last six months - both in their own lives and the bitter poison they’d drawn from each other. Why things had been so bad, neither could know. Perhaps it was that they had never gotten a true ending to what they’d shared. Always, whatever they had was cut off by angry outbursts, cruel ultimatums, or the timely hand of fate reaching out to fuck them over. Brendan could no longer tell what he wanted from this, but he did know that he was tired of not having his due, tired of struggling to find even one moment of peace where he could at least pretend his life wasn’t one terrible, toxic wasteland. 

“God, Steven,” the Irishman swore, in the brief instant he could break away. He’d forgotten how powerful the lad made him feel. How damn good it was to feel his honest touch, hear the impatience in his voice, have his wiry frame rock against him.

His companion chuckled against Brendan’s mouth, obviously pleased with himself. Buoyed by the exclamation of the dark-haired man beneath him, Ste hooked his hands under Brendan’s white vest and hauled it off him before the guy could protest. When he lowered himself again, it was with his weight on both legs, and a sly slide of one hand into the Irishman’s sweatpants. The oversized cock he reached for was easy enough to find, practically greeting his fingers upon entry. While the younger man proffered delicate kisses with only the tips of his lips, his hand encircled Brendan’s shaft and tugged at the fattest part of it. Firmly, but not enough to give real traction. Growling, Brendan crushed the overconfident bastard into his chest, seizing the back of the lad’s head with one hand and Ste’s arched backside with the other. His erection flared at so much contact, momentarily stiffening to the point it almost bent itself back in Ste’s hand. Brendan rocked the younger man against himself, sucking deep breaths each surge.

Ste was a fantastic lover. He’d always been. Even before he’d fallen into Brendan’s clutches. 

He knew how to give. He knew when to let go and let his partner take control. Most importantly, he knew how to make that guy feel proud, feel accomplished. The Irishman could hardly recall a partner that had inspired more confidence in his abilities. It had been there from that very first time, when all Brendan had done was fist the lad’s heavy cock in cellar of ChezChez. Ste had clung to him, panted against his neck, acted like a few fierce tugs were the height of sexual pleasure. When the handsome young bartender came inbetween strokes of the Irishman’s slick palm, it was with a whimpering cry and a bury of the lad’s face into his shoulder. 

If Brendan had to name a time, choose one moment where his predatory entrapment of a young queer lad who didn’t know any better went so much more wrong than all the other times he’d done it, it had to be that moment that he let Ste linger against him. Normally he would have shoved his prey away, maybe even smeared a handful of their cum across their shirt, their face in the process. He’d have spun on his heel and left, letting their confusion grow into anxiety, into fear, until it got so big that that they would come, pleading, for guidance. Because it wasn’t about love. It was never about love. It was strictly about control, and the fact that he had it and they did not. This lad, hardly more than a boy, should have been no different than any time the Irishman had done this before. 

Yet something had slowed it down. Made him linger. Whether it was the breathless little chuckle Ste let slip against his breast, or fact that he hadn’t pulled his still-hard cock out of Brendan’s sticky hand, or if it was simply the booze in the Irishman’s system, Brendan didn’t pull away. Instead he tightened his grip and slid the younger man’s foreskin back, eliciting an excited gasp that had him grinning from ear to ear. Ste’s expression was incredulous, one eyebrow raised in comic disbelief as his boss - his terrifying, physically imposing _boss_ \- dropped to one knee and smeared Ste’s seed across the exposed head of his cock. Brendan never sucked a partner off on the first encounter. It led to all sorts of weird ideas, it let them think they were his equal. That he was as queer as them, that they could have even a smidgen of power over his lust. But this time, when he took the time to appreciate his partner’s stiffness, the wide-eyed excitement on his face, the doofy grin and hint of expectation on Ste’s face… this time he couldn’t hold back. He swallowed Ste’s cock to the hilt, something he knew a lad of Ste’s size couldn’t have experienced too many times, and the Irish thug reveled in the feel of every inch that hit his throat.

That act, that moment that he had first given in, caused him to tilt. Ste had gotten weird ideas. Thought they might be equals. Brendan never quite forced himself to set Ste straight about it, always left some room for the lad to defy him, in part because he’d never had a man fight him so much about it. 

Giving in two years ago had caused him no end of trouble. Brendan eyed Ste hungrily as the younger man pushed away, lifting his own shirt off in the process. “Steven,” he breathed, tugging the lad in for another passionate kiss.

Maybe he didn’t care about what giving in might bring. Perhaps this time he could just join Ste in the moment, suck the life, the joy, whatever Ste had to give, out of the lad and savor how good it felt to have him again. Take his share of whatever it was that inspired such ferocious loyalty in the men Ste slept with. Himself. Noah. Even little Yankee Doodle Dougie. The women too, for that matter. Ste’s top-shelf picks in mousy little blondes, sweet things that wore their heart on their sleeves. Despite all that softness, Amy and Rae had been thorns in his side from day one, and no matter how big, how bad he had been, they never backed down when it came to Ste. The lad had something about him that sparked unbelievable possessiveness.

Tasting Ste now, feeling the man’s lithe body press against him, drove home something: Brendan had not had Ste, be it kissed, held, or fucked, in almost a year - the game Ste’d played against him with the deli aside. Though Brendan had not thought much of it at the time, he couldn’t imagine how he’d missed that the younger man had been holding back. This was as night and day in difference, this felt like those times more than a year ago, when lust blazed between them at a simple touch. 

Breathless, his head reeling from a mixture of booze, bravado, and the gorgeous young man he had in his arms, the Irishman felt something ancient stir inside him. Somewhere deep inside him, a hint of that fire Brendan had thought long-dead still smoldered. 

He hadn’t realized how empty he’d felt without it. None of the men he’d slept with in the last year had done anything lasting. Faced with fresh memories of Ste, he’d be hard-pressed to recall a single face. Worse, the dark-haired man was getting the sense that maybe those encounters had been even more meaningless than he’d let on. Not one of them had gotten even a finger’s-width of the spark he was feeling now. Brendan struggled to think of a time he had last felt anything close to this.

There had been a cold burn, to be sure, with Walker. A desire to destroy the man. And that had come before Brendan found out he was a cop. He’d not been tender, fucking him - he’d been selfish. Intending to ruin him.

For the last couple months he’d thought that twisted pleasure was the fire he’d lost when he went to prison. God, had he been wrong. What he had with Walker had made him feel, yes, but it was chaff compared to this. A tete-a-tete with Walker brought a perverse satisfaction, a way of seeing how far the man would go to stay in the Irishman’s good graces while knowing full well that the shifty fellow was plotting something questionable. At no point had he ever wanted the man, checked him out the same way Brendan had checked out every other man in the village, even Joel. 

Of lasting sexual encounters this past year… that left him with this one, lone night. With Ste. One last time to have the lad, devour him. Say goodbye in one sense, let him move on to his marriage - but to also remind him of what it meant to leave this kind of passion behind. After all, Brendan had no illusions about exactly what kind of man he was, and of the top words to describe him, “petty” was right up there alongside the others like “nutter” and “psycho.”

Nothing was going to keep him from gorging himself on Ste. Brendan kissed the younger man’s chin, his stubbly jaw, the sharp adam’s apple on his throat. When his companion attempted to return the favor, biting Brendan’s neck and shoulders, the Irishman growled and tried to force both hands down the back of the lad’s jeans. Prevented by Ste’s belt, Brendan had the frustrating task of wrenching it free before nearly ripping the button off the lad’s fly in his haste to get enough room to slip his cold hands in and pry his companion’s buttocks apart. The startled jerk of the smaller man when his fingertips brushed against very personal parts of him more than made up for any frustration. 

Now with a firm hold on both of Ste’s tight little cheeks, the dark-haired Irishman could grind the smaller man’s dick against his with impunity. His own legs too sore to push upwards, Brendan used his arms to rock Ste’s stiffness against him in a slow, easy manner that quickly got the younger man’s attention. Giving the kissing a rest, Ste let his upper half fall to the side, resting his head on Brendan’s shoulder and making appreciative noises at both the strong hands that gripped his bottom and the swell of friction about his shaft. Once Ste started snapping his hips in time with Brendan’s hands, the older man moved one hand to the cleft between his round cheeks and used the other to grip the back of the lad’s head and direct him to far, far more kissing. Brendan had no idea how long they spent rocking and necking, but eventually the Irishman tired of the thrusting and decided to continue his conquest of his former lover. Brendan kissed him twice more, then shoved Ste upright. 

“Get your cock out.” When the brunet blinked at him, nonplussed, Brendan’s eyes narrowed. “Now. Steven,” he snapped. 

At the sound of the order Ste snapped into motion, standing and quickly shimmying the rest of the way out of his jeans. He wasn’t given time to do anything else, as Brendan helpfully jerked his briefs down to his knees and buried his face in his nuts.

The scent of Ste, mixed with whatever he’d used in the shower, excited the Irishman. He had always loved the control he felt when taking another man in his mouth, and his pretty, blue-eyed companion made using his mouth a treat. Ste had always been one for careful grooming - the lad could spend an hour in front of the mirror, though Brendan was hardly any better himself, and it showed. His pubes were neatly trimmed, just long enough to be male, but short and well-kempt, displaying all his best features. More importantly, there was nothing between the skin of his scrotum and Brendan’s tongue; the dark-haired man lapped at the wrinkled sac, suckling at one ball first, then letting it fall, wet, to his chin when he moved to the other. He lost himself in playing with them, rolling them with his tongue, popping them from his mouth, shoving his nose in them as he bit at Ste’s inner thighs. 

“Oi!” the younger man barked, his accent thicker than usual. “Them’s not all you were after, was it? Thought it was me cock you that you wanted?”

Letting Ste’s balls fall from his mouth, Brendan fixed his pale blue eyes on the lad’s face. “I was whetting my appetite. Some things,” he drawled, “need to be savored first.” As he spoke he ran his lips, his mustache, along the underside of Ste’s heavy shaft. Ste’s face flushed.

“You make it sound a treat.” The lad tried to sneak his fingers in about his cock, but Brendan batted them away without thought, keeping his own hands firmly in place. 

“Did I?” Brendan asked, his tone noncommittal. He dragged the flat of his tongue around the head of Ste’s cock, playing with the foreskin before rudely shoving it back and popping the entire glans into his mouth. The larger man sucked mightily, using his cheeks, tongue, and lips to spread saliva over as much of Ste’s shaft as he could reasonably fit before it hit the back of his throat. While he enjoyed the appreciative sighs the lad gave whenever he swept the cockhead over his lips, swirled his tongue around it, Brendan liked the soft touch of Ste’s hand to the back of his head the most. 

Encouraged, the Irishman pulled Ste’s cock out of his mouth completely, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath before he made to swallow the entire thing.

It took some work. Ste was not a small lad - where it mattered, anyway - but the dark-haired man was pleased to see he could still manage a smooth, steady glide of something that big. Even on the way down his throat. 

“Brendan!” Ste gasped, his eyes bugging out when the Irishman’s nose pressed into his crotch. Feeling the younger man tremble - and knowing full-well what sort of effect a deep-throating of his cock had on the lad - Brendan held himself in place, one hand gripping Ste’s thighs and the other clenching the very base of his shaft. He sucked a few noisy breaths in through his nose, just to prove that he could, before letting his gag reflex kick in. Ste twitched at the clutching feeling pulling away when he felt Brendan’s white-knuckle grip on his legs relax.

The slide of the lad’s dick through his mouth almost had his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Gahhh!” Brendan croaked, pulling the younger man’s cock from the back of his throat. It emerged, soaked in mucus and saliva. Brendan lapped it all up, tightening his grip at the base and diving back in for more. The man was merciless in his attack, rapidly cycling between lips, tongue, and his sultry mouth, each swipe fully intended to make Ste crack. It worked. 

“Oh, God,” Ste swore, his legs shaking. He would have collapsed were it not for it not for the couch. It still took both hands to right himself and pull back. The Irishman refused to let up, however, continuing his long, deep bobs. The feel of the lad’s thick cock stretching his throat was too addicting. He pushed his nose into Ste’s navel, again going deep enough to gag, then pulled off and swirled his tongue around the heavily glazed glans. Brendan could feel the younger man try to pull away, but his hold on Ste’s shaft remained iron-tight. “Brendan,” Ste begged, “Brendan, please…”

His fingers curled in the Irishman’s hair as he leaned on the couch for support. Brendan ignored the little whimpers that kept falling from Ste’s mouth, one hundred percent of his focus on the taste of the precum that kept salting his tongue when he laved it over the glans. His own, pale hands occupied themselves with stroking the insides of Ste’s thigh, tugging on his balls, gripping the shaft whenever he wanted to really make Ste whine. He forced his tongue into the folds of the lad’s foreskin and felt an immediate shudder in the scrawny man. “Oh! Oh that’s mint, Brendan!” Ste marveled, thrusting into the dark-haired man’s mouth. The mustached Dubliner took the compliment in stride. He knew damn well that he could smoke a pole with the best of them. He simply redoubled what he did with his tongue while tightening his hold on the lad’s shaft. Tugging now meant he could force Ste’s foreskin around at the same time he sucked. 

Soon, however, the mewls Ste made became more insistent, until he became desperate enough to push on Brendan’s forehead. “Brendan,” he breathed, “Brendan stop - I’m gonna cum if you don’t-!” 

Part of the Irishman - a very large part - did not give a single fuck about the lad spurting in his mouth. He continued to savage the head of Ste’s rigid cock, proud of the involuntary thrusts that shook the younger man’s hips. He stole a glance at Ste’s face. The man had his head tilted to one side and was chewing his bottom lip fiercely, his brow furrowed. Brendan swallowed Ste’s cock to the hilt once more, still debating whether to make him shoot. It was only at the last minute, when he desperately needed air and could gag on the heavy piece no longer that he gave in and let the erection pop from his mouth completely. 

Strings of saliva followed Ste’s cock as it snapped free, the lad’s entire body sinking as though some internal wire had been cut. A minute past where neither of them moved, Ste because he was dazed and Brendan because he was full of regret for not claiming a mouthful of seed. Then the Irishman hauled Ste against him, the lad’s wet cock slapping against their bellies as he kissed him fervently. Ste broke the kiss first. “Mint,” he murmured, a breathless chuckle escaping him. “Proper mint.”

He pushed himself away from the Irishman - careful not to brush his still-hard cock against anything that might just set him off - and went to his knees in front of the dark-haired man. Brendan just gave him a blank stare, feigning disinterest, an effect somewhat ruined by the clear bulge of a painfully obvious erection in his sweats. 

Ste rubbed a hand over it. Brendan’s eyes flicked from it to the lad’s face. “Did that jobby do this to ya then?” Ste asked, flashing a terribly smarmy grin.

Brendan was about to just slap his dick against the lad’s face, make him pay for that little taunt, when a whiff of rank sweat struck his nose. It was his own. 

He jerked upright, wincing internally at the sudden movement but still grabbing the younger man’s hands from his sweats. “No - no, hold on,” he stalled. 

Resistance was not something Ste had expected here. He tried his most enticing grin. “You gotta let me return the favor, Brendan.” His hands cupped the thick sausage-like roll that arced over the Irishman’s hip.

Seeing his cock in the lad’s mouth was something he was more than willing to do, but there was also the fact that he had been wearing the same clothes and gone unwashed for two days. “I ain’t had a shower yet.” _Not much reason to when you’re the town pariah_ , he thought to himself. 

Ste scrunched his face, confused. “So? What’s that to do with anything?” He made to pull at Brendan’s sweatpants again.

 _Maybe I don’t want you getting a mouthful of dick cheese and lint,_ the Irishman almost snapped. He held that back, ready to burn in hell before he let his image slip that low. “No, Ste, let me - let me...” Brendan began, focused on both trying to stop him while offering an alternative. Then an even better idea occurred to him. He fixed a seductive smile on his face. “What say you we wash up together?”

He didn’t give Ste a chance to respond. The Irishman just hauled himself up, pretending he didn’t need the cane nearly as much as his screaming hip said he did, and limped for the second floor. Turning to Ste, he gestured impatiently. “Well? I’m not gonna carry ya, Steven.”

The lad leapt up, nervously tugging his underwear back in place as he darted past Brendan with a conspiratorial grin. The dark-haired man smirked to himself, then hobbled after him. When he caught up to Ste in the second-floor bathroom, the slim brunet was staring at the dial below the showerhead, one hand under a stream of probably freezing cold water.

Setting his cane aside and dropping his sweats to the floor, Brendan urged him out of the way. “It goes by the little notch on the bottom,” he explained, twisting the knob back around to a satisfying warmth. He stepped in, quickly peeling his foreskin back while his body still blocked any view. Surreptitiously tugging, he washed the worst of himself under the guise of still testing the water. “Water’s good, get in here,” he said, but no warm body joined hopped in beside him. He peered over his shoulder.

Behind him, Ste had peeled off his briefs and stood naked, one arm clutched to his side. Brendan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong, Steven?”

Color bloomed in the lad’s cheeks. He looked down and to the side as he stepped into the shower. Brendan pulled the door shut, forcing Ste next to him - and also leaving no more room for looking away. When he finally met the dark-haired man’s measuring gaze, the red in his cheeks was even stronger. “I’ve not showered with a bloke before,” he murmured, shrugging one shoulder.

Neither had Brendan. Not in the years since Vinnie, anyway. Far too intimate for the type of guys he normally slept with. He pressed his penis against Ste’s, under the stream of water. “Makes for a bit of fun, don’t it?”

The answering grin, alternately bashful and excited, told him exactly how the lad felt about it. He gathered Ste to him, their bodies under the stream, and kissed him. Gentle at first - always at first - but with a growing intensity that had them panting by the time they parted, leaning their foreheads together for support. A breathless laugh slipped from Brendan, Ste joining him a second later.”Should have been a cold shower, eh?” the Irishman quipped, disengaging himself to wash up. 

Ste’s hands wandered down to paw at the dark-haired man’s plump arse. Firm cheeks, but just enough jiggle to them that they made bouncing them a sight. Whenever he heard women in the village talk about fine arses, he was always shocked no one mentioned Brendan Brady’s. The man even showed it off, often enough, with the tailored suits he wore everywhere. He pulled the cheeks apart, delighting in the reveal of the Irishman’s most intimate parts. 

The press of a thumb against his anus sent a jolt straight up Brendan’s spine. Feigning nonchalance, he continued to lather up his hands and chest, even as that thumb pushed inwards. When he finally turned around, it was with a hooded stare and a fully erect cock. 

“You need something?” he asked.

Ste flushed, but stepped into the taller man’s space and circled his arms around his waist. “No, there’s just this fit bloke whose arse I was appreciatin’.” He shamelessly groped the Irishman’s pale buttocks, his fingers clearly on a path back to the hairy cleft between his cheeks. 

Brendan cocked his head. “Strange. I know this lad, wee little slip of a thing, but fit enough, whose arse I appreciate too.” He brought his soaped hands down the small of Ste’s back, spreading the brunet’s cheeks with one hand and slipping all four fingers of the other between them.  


His companion’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe they know each other?” Ste wondered. The sparkle was accompanied by the play of a smile on his lips. And the tap of his fingers against Brendan’s hole, again.

The coy little cast to the lad’s mouth took away whatever wit Brendan had left. He claimed Ste’s lips with his own, the same way he claimed his pert little arse with his fingers. He spread them over the lad’s furred crack, digging at his tight anus. 

It was, in fact, even tighter than he had expected. Either Doug was even less of a man than he’d thought or… The Irishman cocked a brow when broke the kiss. “Been a while, Steven?” He waggled the one finger he could slip in for emphasis. 

“No,” Ste grumbled, his face coloring. He turned his face away, intensely occupied with what his fingers were doing between Brendan’s cheeks. “Doug just… ain’t much for that stuff, is all.”

Feeling the younger man relax, Brendan gently worked the tip of a second finger against the clenched hole. He also frowned at Ste’s explanation. “He knows he’s a queer, right?”

A sharp noise of derision slipped from Ste’s mouth, although his lips still quirked up at the corners. “Come off it! Not every gay guy likes anal, you know!” 

“Yet here we are, each of us knuckle-deep in the other’s arsehole,” the dark-haired man stated dryly, keenly aware of the two fingers he had in Ste and the lengthy middle finger Ste had buried to the hilt in him.

Ste hid his face in Brendan’s shoulder, but Brendan could hear - and feel - the laughter that threatened to escape him. “You’ve such a way with words,” the brunet cooed. 

“Could write a play, couldn’t I?” Brendan smirked. He leaned close, rubbing their slick bodies together. His voice was low, intent. “About how to give a bloke…. proper... treatment.” He squeezed one of Ste’s little cheeks with one hand, and slipped a third finger in with the other.

“Ah!” Ste stiffened sharply, biting back the rest of the cry. After the surprise faded, he settled against the Irishman and let the warm shower relax him. “If it had this,” he said, kissing Brendan’s jaw, “I’d watch it.”

“Need to make the Yank watch it instead.” The Irishman scowled.

Pulling away Brendan’s chest, Ste spoke up in defense of his boyfriend. “Doug’s right good at other stuff, I’ll have you know!”

He scoffed. “What, like cryin’ afterwards?” 

Ste looked about to argue, but then he wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, he does get mopey a bit often, don’t he.” He busied himself with scrubbing the soap off his arse.

“You’ll be needing me to be hard on ya then?” Brendan engulfed the lad from behind, happy to nuzzle his burgeoning cock between Ste’s cheeks. “I mean, on account o’ him being so soft?” His hands slid down the younger man’s tanned abs and clutched the base of his shaft. He waggled the lengthy piece. “Soft,” he said again, for emphasis.

Comprehending the slight, Ste twisted at the waist. “Right, I’m serious here,” he snapped, glaring. “You make this ‘bout Doug and I leave. Now.”

The hint of ire of on the young man’s face was so intoxicating that Brendan had half a mind to bury his tongue in the lad’s throat and do everything he could to crawl inside him. The other half of him was tempted to drop one more loaded comment, just to see how far he could take it before Ste stormed off. He would, too, for all that he was naked in Brendan’s shower, the Irishman’s fingers hooked about his cock. That was the thrill of the game, though, figuring out where that line between the fire in Ste’s eyes began and where the precipice of his rage ended. Not that he’d had much success thus-far - the lad was surprisingly able to hold onto a grudge for a very, very long time. 

Despite having never a met a button he didn’t want to push, Brendan reigned himself in. Would hardly do push the lad away from his boyfriend, much as the imposing Dubliner wanted to physically knock the American runt aside and lay claim to Ste forever. 

Biting back his initial response, Brendan took a measured breath and kissed the younger man’s cheek. “Don’t worry, Steven, there’s no contest with the Yank.” The sour twist of Ste’s face made it clear the lad was trying to puzzle out if that had been a dig at his fiance or not, but the dark-haired Irishman didn’t give him time to finish. Masking any other emotions, Brendan gestured impatiently. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

Though he stared the Irishman down at first, Ste turned with a sulky huff and put his hands out against the tiled wall. His pout faded immediately, disappearing the moment Brendan parted his cheeks with both hands and shoved his impressive Irish dick between them. “Oho ho ho,” the younger man chuckled, “Ho, Christ, Brendan, you’ve got a right proper todger on you!”

“Did it really take you this long to notice?” Brendan circled his arms about Ste’s chest, his stomach flush with the small of the younger man’s back. 

Giggling, Ste shook his head. “I ain’t forgotten naught! I just - it’s one thing to know, it’s another to feel a third leg get pushed against ya!”

Brendan huffed. The lad was damn good for a lover’s ego. He dropped his head to Ste’s shoulder and pressed forward, letting the smaller man bear his weight. His hands wandered up and down Ste’s chest while he rocked his hips against his arse. “What am I going to do to make you remember then?” he asked, using his left hand to tug Ste’s cock, his right to drag the bell-end of his dick over Ste’s twitching hole.

“I want you to fuck me, Brendan,” his slight, tanned, impossibly sexy companion demanded.

The taller man leaned in, brushing his lips along Ste’s arched neck, water washing away his touch, but he continued regardless. His passion building, he crushed the young man’s body to his and ground his steel erection against the tight little arse. He panted, scraping his teeth against Ste’s ear. “I’ll always give you what you want. Any time, Steven.” 

Not that he had any plans on delivering. Not right this moment at any rate. He had to leave something for the next time. Something left unfinished, because it never quite ended between them. One tenth of it was to remain convinced that he was in control. Nine tenths of it was to leave Ste wanting more, wanting that unique pleasure the dark-haired Irishman knew for a fact the lad had yet to find anywhere else. Nine tenths of it was because he wanted Ste to hesitate, when he saw him, wanted Ste to that missing piece, that hunger he could not satisfy anywhere else. And one tenth of it was to convince himself he was still the one in control.

After all, if there was one flaw Brendan could admit to, of his very few, it was that he was petty. 

Instead of pressing forward, letting the younger man’s tight hole envelop him, Brendan angled his cock just enough that the head sprang free of Ste’s anus and let his dick slide through the cleft of his buttocks. Seeing the angry red head of his cock sticking out from the top of Ste’s cheeks was a satisfying sight, one that quickly turned hypnotic when Brendan realized he could make his foreskin peel over it, back and forth, whenever he gave particularly vehement thrusts. Ste’s grunts held a note of pleasure, and when Brendan ran his hands from the lad’s shoulders to his hips, the grunts turned into a throaty chuckle. Between the willingness of his companion and the feeling of power he drew from the sight of the lad arched before him, Brendan thought he might linger. Give himself time to memorize the view.

Not everyone was so enamored of the moment. Nearing the end of his patience, Ste dropped his stance and ground his buttocks into the Irishman’s hairy crotch. “Well c’mon Brendan, fuck me already!” He glared over his shoulder when Brendan continued to just grind against him. “You tryin’ to make me beg?”

“Much as I love hearing you get all soft and needy,” the dark-haired man taunted, “It ain’t happening, Steven. Not like this.”

“No - Brendan! Just -!” Ste grabbed the Irishman’s rigid dick and attempted to force himself down it, but Brendan spun him about and pinned him against the wall instead.

“Haha! Not a chance!” He kissed the lad, hard, leaning his entire body against him. When he broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against Ste’s. “You said you wanted to thank me, Steven.” He brushed his pale lips against the younger man’s, tasting water and salt and flesh. After going back for a second taste, he asked, “Shouldn’t it be about… my... needs then?”

The pout on Ste’s face was priceless. The dark-haired man burst into laughter and kissed him again. “Right, Brendan,” Ste began when they parted, “Because it’s never been ‘bout your needs before.”

Brendan grimaced. “Fair point. But I think, maybe this time,” he said, shutting off the water, “We might have a common interest.”

He pointedly tapped the flared head of his cock against Ste’s. The lad glanced down, and when his blue eyes met Brendan’s again the depths held an impish glint. “We headin’ to your bedroom then?” 

The Irishman twitched at the eagerness in his voice. “If you’re not yet feeling satisfied...” he drawled.

Grinning, Ste slid past Brendan, his naked body shedding water over the bathroom tile. Brendan followed more slowly, enjoying the view, and not bothering to hide it. Ste caught the dark-haired man with a towel, drying the both off quickly. “In a rush, Steven?” the Irishman asked.

“Got a hot date with that fit bloke from earlier, me,” Ste quipped, all cheek. 

Brendan feigned confusion. “Hm, the one with the great arse?”

“Yeah, great arse but he’s got a todger on him that’s had me gaggin’ for it.” Ste squeezed the Irishman’s cock, pushing a finger into Brendan’s loose, pale foreskin and tugging briefly. 

“That’s odd.” Brendan cocked his head as he followed Ste into the hall. “I got this young Manc stoppin’ by sos I can deepthroat his cock. You know him?”

Ste swung around, backing the bedroom door open. “Might. Know a lot of Mancs, me. What’s he look like?”

Brendan smirked. “Like a skeezy little council rat.”

“Skeezy!” The lad chortled. “Well I hope he doesn’t run into that fit bloke I was telling you about.” Ste’s smile sharpened. “He’s this naked Irish perv, can’t ever turn down a chance to play with me knob.”

“Too right he can’t,” Brendan growled, shoving Ste back on his bed. He pounced on him, the stiffness in his body surpassed by a ravenous hunger. Giggling, Ste attempted to worm his way free, so the heavier Irishman swung around to seat himself on the younger man’s chest. Then he buried his face in Ste’s crotch, once again laving his tongue over every bit of the lad that he could fit in his mouth. And some that he could not.

Vaguely aware of Ste’s hands exploring his arse, tugging on his swinging sac, Brendan maneuvered his hips closer to the young man’s head but was otherwise content to lay on Ste’s smooth stomach and stuff his mouth with his heavy cock.

For his part, Ste was initially content to enjoy the view - and feel - of Brendan’s arse spread open before him, the Irishman’s fat sac dangling between his thighs. Fun as it was to play, though, Ste had been wanting to get Brendan’s painfully thick dick in his mouth for some time. Problem was, the heavier man had a firm hold on Ste, and wasn’t about to let him go anywhere. In fact, Ste knew from experience that Brendan was a cock-sucking fiend, and once he had it in his mind to blow him, nothing could dissuade the him. The brunet’s blue eyes flicked to Brendan’s buttocks. Well, most things couldn’t. 

Ste took the opportunity to shove a rude thumb into Brendan’s hole. The dark-haired man jerked, gagged, and pulled of Ste’s cock, coughing. He shot a dagger-look at the smirk on the smaller man’s face, freed one hand, and wiggled backwards to slap his thick bell-end against Ste’s cheeks. 

“Was this what you wanted?” he demanded, moving it every time the lad tried to get his mouth around it. HIs slapping got fiercer in the process. “Hungry for that Irish sausage? Didja get the crave for something thick and meaty?” Brendan smacked his dick against the struggling man’s nose. 

“Stop - give it - give it here you bloody wanker!” Ste barked, though he also was laughing. He finally got his arms out from under Brendan’s legs and jerked the Irishman’s cock to his lips. _Beast of a thing,_ Ste reflected, as he fit the head in with his tongue. At first he struggled to fit more than a mouthful in, until Brendan yanked them onto their sides. Once there it was easier for the both of them, with Ste keeping one knee cocked while Brendan raised his left foot and braced it on the headboard. 

Part of Ste was still incredulous that he was doing this. He was, in theory at least, still engaged - and to a man so unlike Brendan, in so many ways, that it made no sense for him to be here again. Yet, despite the dark history he had with the Irishman, doing this fulfilled something in him that, lately, had been going crazy every day he was with Doug. The American was no slouch when it came to, well, ‘sport in bed,’ but he was still something of a prude when it came to what they actually _did_. Anal was almost always off the table, and even sixty-nining was met with thinly veiled resistance. He loved Doug, to be sure - and yet, being able to gag himself on a cock that couldn’t fit down his throat without stretching it while at the same time making his partner gag on his own thick prick… 

There was something impossibly _manly_ about this, something that inspired vigor, lust, and intoxicating sexual prowess. The act of closing his thighs about Brendan’s head, trapping him in place while he pushed his cock down the man’s throat. Brendan gamely swallowing every inch, the man taking him in a way only Amy had ever been able to do. 

Sex with her had been brilliant. Playful. But they had been kids - and it was nothing compared to absolute filth he got up to with Brendan Brady. The return of two fingers to his anus, tracing the rim and nothing more, made him shudder and jerk back. He dug his lip-covered teeth into the pudgy underside of Irishman’s dick in retaliation, redoubled his efforts to peel Brendan’s pale foreskin back with only only his tongue. The spit left smeared on his face, the heat of the bollocks against his forehead - Ste heaved deeply and savaged his one-time lover’s cock with a ferocity that might have scared him had it been anyone else. He tightened his grip on the base, jerked his hand back far enough to yank the Irishman’s foreskin back so hard it might have hurt. Attacked the angry pink glans with his lips and tongue, pinning the bell-end to the roof of his mouth while he dug his tongue into the folds of skin underneath. Brendan flinched, his body tightening at the oral assault, and Ste could hear something almost like a whine squeak past the mustached lips about his cock. Having never had sympathy for the man’s beastly cock in the past, Ste hardly took pity on him now. He gripped Brendan’s plump bottom with both hands and drove his mouth down the entire length of the Irish prick. Not having Brendan’s skill meant he only got two thirds of the way, though, to be fair, any man who tried to swallow the Irishman whole was at a very unfair disadvantage.

When he pulled back, he left a trail of slime and saliva thick enough to rival what Brendan had put out swallowing Ste. The young Mancunian licked his lips, made a vague effort to clean up the mess, though honestly most of him was simply proud how he had made the Irishman squirm. 

This was gay sex. This was what it meant to have another man drive into you, take him into your body and experience raw pleasure at just making him beg for more - with his voice, with his body, with the stiffness of his cock - whatever. There were no kisses, no tenderness. It took him back to those early days, more than two years ago, when a lanky, dark-haired stranger woke something inside Ste, something he knew now was that hunger for a rough pounding where he did not have to give a fuck about holding back with how much he enjoyed his partner’s body. He could take what he wanted, be it blood, sweat, or flesh, and as he sank his teeth into Brendan’s thigh, he had to bite back a growl of dominance. 

Brendan cried sharply. “Fuck! Steven!” He glared up the length of their bodies at the lad, who placed the Irishman’s cock in his mouth as a placating gesture. Grumbling, Brendan returned to his increasingly difficult worship of Ste’s dick. While he would have loved to take his time - continue to take his time, at any rate - he could feel the lad getting worked up. Could tell he was getting worked up as well, for that matter. Ste’s teeth, his fingers, the cruelty with which he worked Brendan’s cock - it was having an effect on the Irishman. Few men saw through his thug-facade. Fewer still… he let the thought trail off, preferring instead to noisily slurp the tip of Ste’s stiff prick. 

Even as he did so he could feel the tightening coil in gut. Ste had forced two fingers into Brendan’s hole, showing none of the restraint the Irishman had with the younger man. Brendan panted around the cock in his mouth, his dick twitching madly, his hips rolling as he tried to hold back his climax. 

He focused on making the lad pay for getting him so close. He pumped the young Manc’s cock while he once again attacked Ste’s balls with his tongue. He stroked his fingers over Ste’s perfect, taut little hole - but in the end he only tormented himself. 

It was the feel of the lad’s puckered flesh that did him in. Brendan wanted, so badly, to drive all four fingers in there, bite it with his teeth and fuck the younger man in two. He also wanted to deepthroat Ste’s robust dick, let his nuts rest on his nose, inhale every centimeter of the lad that he could. It was the knowledge of what he could do with the wealth of Ste’s taut body, the knowledge of what Ste would let him do that the Irishman struggling to see straight as that coil in his gut tightened to the breaking point. 

Ste could tell, by the tension in Brendan’s hips, the little grunts that slipped from the mouth around his dick, that his lover was close. He fisted the irish prick with his free hand, brutally pumping the shaft while the fingers inside the dark-haired man’s arse pushed - and held - that spot that made Brendan’s toes curl. The squawk of indignation, followed by desperate, fiery cursing, had Ste ready. He closed his mouth over the bulbous head of Brendan’s erect cock, in time for the man’s climax to spill over. The Manc didn’t bother to swallow most of it, letting t pour down the thick shaft and matt in Brendan’s dark pubes. 

Beside him, Brendan blinked the wetness from his eyes and gravelly redoubled his efforts, clutching every bit of exposed flesh that he could to himself. He was hungry, and wanting, and damned if he was going to let the younger man get away without paying his due.

Fortunately, Ste was not far behind. As Brendan spasmed, flooding the brunet’s mouth with seed, the feel of irish cum spilling over his lips - along with the gagging tightness of Brendan’s throat - set him over the edge and he had his orgasm wrenched out of him. Nothing could hold it back, and his first spurt felt closer to opening a floodgate than the typical drizzling shot. Ste gasped, cursed aloud, his words trailing off into a toneless whine as it felt like his very nuts emptied. Sobbing, the lean brunet tried to push away, but Brendan had none of it - he just sank the thick cock that much deeper into his throat. Worse, the dark-haired man swallowed gamely, each pulse seemingly sucked out of Ste by a mouth with damn near expert levels of fellatio.

By the time Ste finished gushing in Brendan’s mouth he lay curled up on himself, drooling mindlessly on the Irishman’s belly. His only grace was that Brendan had pulled off his softening dick and was struggling to swallow the bulk of the cum Ste had dumped in his throat. Pro he as was, the man hadn’t been expecting the lad to be carrying that much lead in his pencil. It really had been a while for him. No wonder Ste had shown up, Brendan realized as mightily choked the last of the salty mess down his throat and gasped for air, every nerve in his body - from lips to groin - delightfully afire. 

Exhausted, his chest heaving, Brendan rolled to the side and stared blankly at the ceiling. After a few minutes, he found the strength to push himself up and check on Ste - who sat against the headboard, hands laced through his hair, a wide, giddy grin on his face. 

Somehow Brendan found the energy to swivel his legs around and collapse on the pillow beside the Manc lad, letting his right hand trace Ste’s delicate chin until they finally caught their breath. 

“‘Not had a blow like that in yonks, me,” Ste mumbled, after a while, his grin tired, but very, very satisfied. He huffed. “Almost wonder if I lost some o’ me bones there.” 

Brendan put an extended finger to the young man’s shaved chest, He walked his fingers down to Ste’s crotch. “Well, ya did lose one.” Then he smirked at his pun. It grew wider when his bed companion groaned and started to chastise him. Ignoring the ruffled young man’s’ complaints, Brendan pulled him in for a long, slow kiss. With Ste on one arm, the lad’s naked, lean body spread beside him, Brendan closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. 

They woke twice during the night. The first resulted in almost an hour of heavy snogging in the dark, Brendan’s entire world consisting of Ste’s mouth, his sharp stubble, and the lad’s wiry arms. Ste, for his part, kept moving against the larger man, alternately spreading on top of and squirming under him, but usually in such a way that their genitals remained folded together. Neither spoke, neither attempted to turn it into more. The only thing that seemed to matter was the next heavy kiss, and the dark.

The second time was after Ste tried to slide away. Brendan snatched an arm about his scrawny waist and held him in place, nuzzling his neck, until the younger man whined about needing to pee. Only grudgingly letting go, Brendan rolled over and fell back asleep.

Ste cast about for his shirt, then recalled it had gotten thrown somewhere in the living room. Shrugging, he padded to the bathroom and relieved his bladder. While there he found his underwear, the pricey pair Brendan had bought him the last time they had been together. Pulling them on made him wince at the stretched feeling in his arse, but irksome as it was… it felt good. Familiar. 

He didn’t return to the bedroom. Instead he went downstairs, where the early light was starting to show through the windows. The clock on the oven told him it couldn’t even rightly be called morning. The Hollyoaks native was also hungry. They hadn’t bothered to eat last night. 

Throwing something together was a cinch. The Bradys loved food, brother and sister both being massive comfort-eaters. Beans, egg, sausage. White pudding, which Ste’d only ever eaten at their place, and a surprising amount of tomatoes, considering he didn’t think either of them ever bothered with anything more complex than what could be heated in the microwave. Figuring Brendan would want a Brady-sized share as well, Ste threw it all on the stove and set about his work. 

It didn’t take long. He briefly entertained waking Brendan, but… they weren’t exactly lovers. No point in having breakfast the day after, spending time staring at each other. He had to move on. Ste dished out two plates, placing everything else in the sink. He ate in his underwear at the table, pondering his choices… and whether he really had any. 

There hadn’t been any illusions about last night. He had maybe hoped that there would be the passionate fucking of their first days, the cramming of Brendan’s great cock up his arse and his whimpering cries into a pillow. Or the Irishman’s desperate grunts when he’d had Ste on top, his mouth and teeth savaging the younger man’s lips. Despite not getting the fucked-into-the-mattress shagging he had been half-hoping for, the soreness of his arse was welcome consolation. It had been far too long.

In some ways, it had gone perfect. He’d spent a night with a man who enjoyed his body - who relished a cock in his mouth, who paid heed to what got a response. What worked. He’d gotten an answer to a question as well. There was something there. Something he didn’t think either of them knew what to do with.

Which was neither here nor there, and perhaps it didn’t even have anything to do with what he had with Doug. That was what set him back the most.

Ste finished his meal, downed his tea. Loaded the dishwasher some and, instead of going back upstairs, set about getting dressed. His shirt from where it had been thrown against the telly, his jeans from where he had shimmied out of them by the couch. No longer trying to impress, he buckled them below his hips.

As far as goodbyes went… this was okay. Maybe, somehow, what he’d actually been wanting all year. Needed all year, since their break-up.

This time, he didn’t need to hesitate on Brendan’s stoop, or second-guess anything. It had rained again that night, and there was a chill coming, but he simply zipped up his jacket. For the first time in what had to be weeks, there was a lightness in his breast, a bit more of a bounce in his step. Ste strode off, his hands in his jacket pockets, not even minding the damp.

\------------

(Brendan)

When Brendan woke the next morning, the spot beside him was empty. The Irishman frowned, but didn’t bother reaching to feel the space. He just threw the covers the to side and stalked to the bathroom to take care of more pressing needs. On his way back down the hall he realized he’d forgotten his cane by the shower. He shrugged and continued down the stairs.

Hobbling to the kitchen, Brendan glanced at the full english someone - he could only imagine who - had left on plate on the counter.The Irishman stared at it for some time before he took a seat at the breakfast bar with it. The first cold bite was slow, measured. The next came a bit faster, and soon the dark-haired man was eating with gusto, at a pace he hadn’t shown in days.

By the time he finished, his stomach felt fit to burst. He sat there, in his sister’s empty flat, a mug of cold tea in one hand, and stared out the little kitchen window for a while.

“Huh,” he said finally. Throwing the plate in the sink, he downed the rest of his tea and set about getting ready for the day. He had a lot to catch up on.


	2. Chapter 2: Joel's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joel comes back to Hollyoaks. Some things change.

\------------

(Joel and Theresa)

Dirty fliers blew across the parking lot they’d stopped in just after leaving Telford. Joel leaned against the car he’d spent the better part of the last few weeks in, relishing the chance to stretch his legs. The wind picked up, but he didn’t bother zipping up his leather jacket. It actually felt good, invigorated him a little. Even gave him the illusion of being a bit cleaner than the towel-off in the petrol station bathroom allowed him to be. 

He crunched through the last of his crisps and stuffed the bag in his pocket. At first he made as though he were in a rush to get moving, but then he stopped. 

They didn’t have anywhere to be today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. The blonde Scotsman pulled out the crisp bag and meandered over to a rubbish bin on the far side of the lot. As he walked, he felt his forehead crease with worry. 

The first two weeks with Theresa had been a blast. Maybe he’d even say euphoric. They’d had money, the stuff he’d gotten from the club. They’d stayed in hotels every night, and God, the sex had been _amazing_. He could still get a bit of a stiffy just thinking about her, and him, and that first night away from Brady. Away from _all_ of Hollyoaks.

But then their money had dwindled, and now it had run out completely. Theresa never seemed to care, of course. The blonde could bat her eyes at anyone, pull out that sweet little coo she threw in to make men weak in their knees, and she was just given whatever she needed. A great trick, something that even helped cover his tracks at times, but he was always the one taking the risk with whatever they boosted. He was the one worrying about where they’d stay for the night, what territory to avoid, where to lay low until heat died down. He wanted her to just start taking this seriously, and less like the lark she’d been treating it as. Today their meal had been crisps pocketed from a bloody PriceSlice knockoff.

Honestly, what he wanted most was a cigarette, and he hadn’t touched those in years. 

Joel could feel his frown deepen into a scowl, so he quickly scrubbed his hand over his face and threw his rubbish in the bin. Wasn’t going to do him much good to stand out here, avoiding her. Hustling back to the car, he had to catch himself again and deliberately slow down. They had time to burn, after all. They had all the time in the world now. He’d left his club, she’d left her kid. No friends, no family, no worries. 

His frown had only returned by the he plopped himself down in the driver’s seat. Theresa was still staring out the window, at the clouds in the distance. The same position she’d been in when they’d stopped. About the only thing that had changed was that she stopped playing with the diamond bracelet he’d stolen for her six days ago.

“Joel - I’ve been thinkin’.” The silence that followed put him on edge. Unsure whether he was willing to break it or not, the blonde lad simply sat and played with the key. Theresa was the one who spoke first, turning to him and hesitating again before she continued. “We’ve got enough in the tank to last us the week, maybe a little more if we stretch it, but... “ she trailed off, her light, whispery voice fraying at the edges. “Hollyoaks is just forty minutes drive from here. We could crash at Myra’s, pick up -”

His blood boiled. “No! No, what’s wrong with you?” He was practically shouting at her. “You’re the one that insisted we get away from there, now you want to go back?”

Theresa held her hands out, attempting to placate him. “Not to stay! Just to stop in, get Kathleen-Angel!”

“Not to stay? You know bloody well that Myra an’ Jackie won’t let you just drop in an’ take her!”

Hurt flashed across the pretty blonde’s face. “She’s my child, Joel! Myra doesn’t have a say!”

She was wrong. So wrong. Myra was the one with a job, a home, her daughters living with her. Theresa was a thief and living in a stolen car. Joel bit back the retort that was about to slip out, his mouth instead slipping into a twisted smile as he nodded in agreement. “Oh, yeah Theresa, Myra won’t say anything! She’ll just cave right over! It’s been three weeks since you even talked to her!”

“An’ it’s killing me!” 

The pain in his girlfriend’s voice when she said that, the look of sorrow - different from the wounded pout she adopted whenever she wanted something - was too genuine for the Scotsman to take. He sucked a sharp breath and glared out the side window. They couldn’t go back to Hollyoaks. Not after the bridges he’d burned. They’d both burned. Theresa had been extremely clear that they needed to leave. 

Especially with Brady still there. Waiting for him - and not about to forget. In all the time he’d known the dark Irishman, the man had more than shown the depths to which he’d go over a grudge. Joel chewed his lip. “An’ what about Brendan then!” he challenged. “Hmm? What’s he gonna do when he sees us back in the village? After we ditched him with a body? The body of the man **I** killed?”

She shook her head. “Nothing! He’s not about to do nothing, Joel!” Even in the midst of arguing, Theresa’s voice was still soft and whispery. “There’s been nowt in the news, whatever happened to your stepdad, it’s not a problem! Brendan isn’t gonna care!”

Joel stared at her. This was nothing like how she’d felt three weeks ago, when all she’d talked about was how dangerous Brady was. “Brendan’s murdered someone, Theresa. You said it yourself! That he’s ‘a killer!’ One we had to get away from!”

“But not a crazy one!” Theresa transfixed him with that statement, her eyes wide, her mouth pleading. “He’s not gonna do anything to you while in the village Joel! He obviously got rid of the body - what more could he have against you? He was the reason you were in that bloody mess in the first place!”

That wasn’t fair. At all. Frowning, Joel puzzled over how she had swung from her intense dislike of Brady to now dismissing him - and why he himself was starting to realize maybe he’d never felt the same. “He stopped Mick from beatin’ me.”

Theresa scoffed. “Only so he could set you up to kill him! That’s what he does - he _is_ a killer, but only if you’ve done something to rile him up!” 

That set him aback for a long, long moment. “Aren’t we killers too then?” Joel demanded, his normally soft Scottish brogue gone thick. 

“No - Joel!” She threw her blonde hair back, tugging on it in frustration. Theresa turned back to him, gesturing between them. “The things you and I did - they were accidents!” Her eyes were big, soulful, and almost convincing. “We didn’t mean nothing, you an’ I! They was things that just - they just happened!”

What she said sounded nice. Even if he’d heard it before, it felt good to hear it again. Yet, Joel still had this gnawing doubt in his stomach, something that told him this didn’t sit right. It must have shown on his face, because Theresa’s eyes narrowed slightly before she turned away. Her tone was sharp. “Brendan killed someone because he toys with people. That’s what makes us different from him!” 

A terse silence fell over them when Joel didn’t respond. The young Scot wondered how much of what she said was true. That his stepdad had been an accident, he agreed - he knew he truly hadn’t meant to _kill_ Mick when he’d pushed him away from Brady... but he still had a part of himself, deep inside, that didn’t regret it. A part that scared him. His hazel eyes flicked briefly to his companion, who glared out the window. Was what she’d done an accident? Did she have part of her that didn’t regret it?

… Did her ‘accident’ have anything to do with his father?

Joel grimaced, bitterly forcing the thought from his head. He did not want to think about what Theresa and Warren might have had. He did not want to draw even a single parallel between himself and Warren Fox - not now, not ever. 

He also did not want to lose her. Life had been much emptier before she came along. As much as he did not want to add in Kathleen-Angel, he wasn’t sure he’d win if she was forced to choose. In fact, he knew he wouldn’t.

That still didn’t change the fact that they’d burned a lot of bridges in leaving. “So what are we supposed to do if we go back?” he barked, scowling.

“What do you mean?” Theresa was all innocence again, all sweet and accepting, her hand on his thigh. It was the simplicity of it all that he loved most about her. He also knew she understood his question far better than she let on. She sighed and gestured with her right hand. “Look, _nobody knows_ why we left.”

Disbelieving, Joel could only stare and ask, “Really?”

Theresa’s voice was scolding. “Yes, really! I’m not about to go tell anyone what happened am I? I never even told Cheryl and she was with us when Mick tried to nab me!” She gripped his hand with both of hers, her slender fingers a comforting touch. “Joel, it’s not going to be any different unless you let it _make_ you different. You just have to keep going like nothing had changed. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.” She said it brightly enough that the Scotsman could almost believe her.

Enamored of her happy vision, Theresa continued. “‘Sides, Myra an’ Jackie an’ all them will be right pleased to see us, won’t they? We’ll pop in for a bit, let Myra take care of us for a while! She’ll be happy for a change, too, with having more help with Kathleen-Angel.”

Joel doubted Myra would welcome them so warmly, but he’d seen Theresa be bloody persuasive when it came to something she wanted. 

And right now she really, really wanted to be with Kathleen-Angel.

The Scottish lad exhaled sharply through his nose. “Maybe...” he began. “Maybe we can go back. For a couple days or something, see how it goes.”

“Yes, that’s it! Just a couple days, is all. Get Kathleen-Angel, if Myra wants to have us we stay for a bit! If not, we leave! Simple!”

It had been too long since he’d seen her this happy. And, he had to admit, he was glad to be returning to Hollyoaks. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it felt like a weight was being lifted from his chest. 

The young man smiled at his pretty girlfriend, leaning over to kiss her. Theresa met his lips eagerly, soft and obliging at first, but subtly deepening it over time. Joel could feel himself rising in response, both in his blood and in his pants. He pulled her too him, reveling in the smell of her body wash, the smear of her lipstick against his lips, the taste of her mouth. He wanted her, more than he had since they’d fled from Brendan and Walker. 

Theresa was feeling it too, surely. She whimpered against him, helped him get a hand under her shirt to paw at her stomach, brush the underside of her soft breasts. The lass was practically throwing herself over him. Going from near-daily romps to a week-long dry spell must have been as hard on her as it had been on him.

Joel broke the kiss, in part to catch his breath and in part to slow the constriction he felt in his jeans. He licked his lips, and in his thickened Scottish brogue he jerked his head at the store. “Pretty sure we could head into that Price Slice over there…” He left the rest unspoken.

Theresa made a very endearing noise of frustration. She looked from him to the store and grimaced. “I want to, but I’m tired of bathroom stalls!” Her frown turned into a pout as she pressed her hands to his breast. “Can’t we save it for tonight?” she begged, leaning tantalizingly close.

“You mean in that closet you share with Carmel?” Joel was joking, but her wide-eyed look of innocence told him everything. “Wha - Theresa!”

The McQueen girl pushed herself back into her own seat. “Wouldn’t be the first time!” she exclaimed, clearly not as perturbed at the thought of it as her boyfriend was. 

Taken aback, Joel couldn’t resist. “For you or for her?”

“Wha- we’re cousins!” Theresa’s indignant expression was genuine enough that Joel almost dropped it, but then he realized that the way she’d answered left a lot more doors open than he cared to know.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“It means - oh forget it! If you think that’s too weird, we don’t have to at all then!” And with that, the charge they had managed to rekindle was shot. Joel stared at the back of her head in disbelief, then angrily readjusted himself, muttering under his breath. Once he finished that, he dug out the key and made a very loud point of forcibly jamming it in the ignition. Theresa turned back to him in surprise. 

“Oh don’t be like that!” Her Scottish lover ignored her, starting the car they’d boosted three weeks ago. Theresa huffed, then fixed a winsome smile. She curled her fingers over the visible bulge of her companion’s erection. “I can give ya a handy if you like.”

Joel just growled and pushed her hand off the bulge along his thigh. He’d been handling himself well enough this week. A handy from someone else didn’t count for much. It was, after all, still just a handy.

Maybe if he saw Theresa and Carmel’s room again he might change his mind. 

 

\-------------------------

(Joel and Theresa)

He didn’t have the chance to change his mind about the bedroom. Or even redeem that offer of a handy. From the moment they returned to Hollyoaks, a pit formed in his stomach. Theresa remained blithely chipper, even as they stood on Myra’s doorstep. 

The first hour had gone about as well as he could have expected. Breakfast for Theresa, nothing for him. She hadn’t bothered to share, but then he wasn’t sure he could have eaten anything anyways - not with the dagger-sharp looks he was getting from every McQueen in the house. As if the whole lark about the kingdom had been pointless faffing about until they needed a place to crash - which it was, and they did, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they all acted like they were above all that, when he knew for a fact that every single one of them had a history as colorful and checkered as his criminal past.

No offer of staying the night came. Jackie and her slovenly peacock of a man had some whinging story about their flat being flooded. Why they weren’t AT their flat, cleaning up, Joel had no idea, but then he never had expected much sense out of either of them. Nor did he care if they wasted their time, slothing about. The dagger-glares Jackie shot him - on top of the permanent sneer Reese had for anyone that wasn’t himself - made it clear there was no love lost there.

Still, he’d expected Myra at least to _suggest_ that they put up there for the night, whatever her other feelings were - at least he did until his pretty blonde girlfriend’s diamond bracelet caught the attention of her pretty blond cousin.

It was that damn bracelet that did them in. The moment he saw Carmel’s eyes land on Theresa’s wrist he knew he should have made her take it off. Theresa’s half-hearted hogwash about it being fake got no traction in that den of thieves. 

Worse, Myra threw out the truth of why she hadn’t shown up at the docks with Kathleen-Angel. Laid it all at the feet of Joel, of course, but he could hardly care any less what the _McQueen_ family thought of him. Half of the lot were thick as brick and they had all the class of the same guttertrash Joel’s own parents had crawled from. Why they acted like they were above any of the shite he pulled, he couldn’t guess at. 

Save Theresa. She’d been the first to really treat him nicely, take interest in him. There was an understanding there, something deeper than Joel really knew what to do with. Even when she’d stormed off, accusing him of going behind her back to abandon her daughter, the blond Scottsman had felt safe in confessing his own pain to her. Yeah, he’d told Myra not to bring Kathleen-Angel to the docks - but how could the two of them, damaged as they were, with no money to their name - hope to take care of a kid while on the run?

When he broke, caught once more in the moment he pushed his stepdad off the lighthouse railing, she was there to put her arms around him. When he confessed how torn he was about what he’d done, she was there to remind him that he wasn’t alone. In the face of that, how could he stand against her getting her daughter back - no matter how terrible a mother she was compared to Myra?

They fought and made up. Then spent the night in the car anyways and woke too early, too angry as a result. He’d snapped at Theresa minutes after waking up, and - much as he didn’t want to - snapped at her again on the way back to Myra’s to see if she wouldn’t give them breakfast. Or at least some toast.

Then Theresa showed up from the PriceSlice, pushing Kathleen-Angel and blithely ignoring the fact that she had just kidnapped her own daughter from where her cousin had left her outside the store. Joel was actually quite proud of himself for not taking her pretty blonde head off right then and there.

Not that it would have mattered much. Theresa only ever did what she herself wanted. At least he got her to text Carmel that Kathleen-Angel was with her, and stop a potential manhunt for a kidnapped child.

There weren’t many ways that his day could get worse - especially when it had already started so poorly - but then that idiot Tony and his sleazy fiancee offered them lunch in the park. When Joel saw the man drop his keys on the blanket, everything just… fell into place.

Lifting knickknacks and clutter - stuff Joel knew no one would miss - from Tony’s place was a cinch. But it was while he strolled through their empty flat one last time that he got an idea of where he and Theresa might stay for a bit. 

Retrieving her and her tot from the park meant her peppering him with questions, especially about the petty cash he’d stolen from Tony - but all her huffy indignation about stealing from the man who’d only done her good turns stopped when Joel forced her to face the reality of spending the night with her kid in a car. Convincing her to go to Jackie’s was much easier after that.

Of course, the flat was in pretty bad shape. 

“It stinks in here!” Theresa exclaimed, upon entering. The carpet squished beneath their feet, and the smell of mold permeated everything. Joel was having none of it, however, considering he’d just spent the day figuring out how they might get food and shelter while she’d spent the day faffing about with her kid.

“So? It’s not like Myra’s smells sooo much better. Or would you rather the car?”

Theresa’s blue eyes blazed, and while she sputtered, she didn’t proffer any response. Meanwhile, Kathleen-Angel swung open the cabinet under the sink and began gleefully playing with the pretty bottles she found under there.

The lock turning startled the two of them out of their argument, however. Fortunately Joel’d had the presence of mind to use the chain. 

“Theresa?” Jackie called, barely able to fit her arm through the door. Her voice was deceptively kind. The moment Joel greeted her, however, the venom came out. 

“I just wanted my baby back!” Theresa cried, but Jackie wouldn’t hear it. 

“Oh, so you just thought you’d snatch her then, is that it? You don’t deserve her, you little cow! Open the door!”

There was no chance of turning Jackie around - despite Theresa’s protests, the McQueen woman was all teeth. Joel got his own back up when she insulted Theresa - who was Kathleen-Angel’s own damn mother - but Theresa remained frustratingly silent on the matter, wincing at the barbs tossed between them and not siding with either. 

At least Jackie went away easily enough. Promising that it wasn’t over, of course, but at least she was gone for the moment. Theresa squelched over to her daughter and put the detergent and cleaning bottles back under the sink. “What are you doing under there?” she cooed, tugging the tot away. “Why don’t we get you some juice instead, yeah?” It was as if all the ugliness just hadn’t even happened.

Joel rolled his eyes. That ‘sunshine and happiness’ was, annoyingly, why he loved her, but it could be bloody saccharine at times. “I’m seeing about the shower,” he growled, stalking off to the bathroom. At least the plumbing had been fixed, he discovered.

The first splash of warm water against his skin was practically heaven. The young Scott hadn’t had a chance to truly clean up in almost three weeks - as he lathered up his stomach and bits it was almost as if a pound of unshed irritation had melted off him.

Things got even better when the shower curtain slid aside and Theresa hopped in, wearing only an eager smile. One Joel returned, pulling her into him and leaning down for a long and hungry kiss.

Then a nervous thought occurred to him. “Where’s Kathleen-Angel?” he asked, just in case Theresa had been meaning to bring her into the shower as well.

“I gave her a juice box and parked her in front of the telly.” “She won’t move from there ‘til her show’s over so come on make this quick!”

Joel paused, but dismissed it. Her kid, after all. 

Theresa, meanwhile, was wet, warm, and her smooth body felt damn good against his skin. He clutched her to him beneath the water, sucking at her pink lips scrubbing his hands over her thighs. She tittered at his eagerness, but he didn’t care. His blood was pumping and he didn’t even bother trying to push it in her this time - he just spun her against the wall and knelt to eat her pussy from behind. 

“Gah - Joel!” she exclaimed, still laughing as he pushed her little thighs apart and forced his face against her clean-shaved slit. The Scott laved his tongue against her vaginal lips, digging the fingers of his left hand into her clit while he used his right to boost her hips. The result was awkward as all hell, but she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t missed sex just as much as him. Theresa pressed her face to the plastic-tile wall and let out a long moan. 

Her quick response made her Scottish boyfriend grin before he planted more kisses on the inside of her thighs. Theresa reveled in the attention, her body tensing and releasing with Joel’s mouth as she got more and more into it. She had half-expected him to try and get “just the tip” inside her, but not only was he not pushing his oversized piece on her - she was getting eaten out in exactly the way she loved most. The blonde helpfully began using her fingers to open her smooth pussy lips and get Joel’s mouth back on them. Fortunately he caught on to what she wanted, and concentrated on first the right lip with a long strong lick before lapping against the the left. 

Joel felt her muscles contract so he slowed down. He switched to a slow rotation of his tongue, introducing it gently to the inside Theresa’s cunt - not too deep, just the tip - before he pulled it back out. Again he began kissing the entrance of her pussy while taking pulling out her fingers, in large part just to be a dick. He sucked at the fleshiest parts of her fold before while his right thumb pressed against her arsehole. 

Theresa readily gave in against it, arching her back just enough to place her pussy on full display. _Bloody hell she’s tight_ , Joel thought, sucking saliva from his mouth while the young, nubile blonde panted.

"Oh god... Joel... you... really don't know... how many times I've wanted you to do this..." Theresa breathed, fingering herself with quite a few digits as Joel stood and moved them both under the showerhead. 

“So you won’t mind this next bit then,” Joel teased, pinning her thighs with his and punching the full thickness of his prick against her womanhood. With the water it simply slid through, but the jolt had her breathless and giggling. 

“It’s so big!” She wrapped her hand around the length that protruded from her thighs, tugging the head in a move she had learned in primary. 

The Scottsman moaned, lowering his mouth to her neck as he dug the fingers of his right hand against her well-lubricated pussy n a steady rhythm that had Theresa voicing her own appreciation. Joel continued to grind into her, the speed of his thrusts increasing until his hips were loudly slapping the McQueen girl’s beautiful arse with almost punishing force. Theresa kept her hips clenched tight, however, riding the pleasurable sensation of Joel’s impossibly thick stiffness sawing against her sex. 

After such a long dry spell he wasn’t about to last very long. Joel came, loudly and with thick spurts that splattered the wall above the faucet. He clutched Theresa’s warm body close, suckling on her neck and kneading her breasts as he caught his breath. For a long, sweet moment it was just the two of them, her sex and thighs trapping his dick, his mouth on hers, under warm water.

“Mama?” Kathleen-Angel’s voice sounded from the door. Theresa leapt out of the shower, snagged a towel and had it about herself by the time the bathroom door opened. Her daughter stood there, peering inquisitively. “Mama did you wash Joel?”

Hiding behind the shower curtain, Joel choked on his laugh. Theresa shot a glare at the tub, but just gave her daughter a winning smile. “Yeah sweetie, Joel was a dirty boy! Mommy was making sure he got clean. Did you need something?”

Reminded of her original purpose, the tot turned and pointed down the hall. “The telly is off.”

Exhaling, Theresa kissed Kathleen-Angel’s head and stood, one hand keeping the towel closed and the other grasping Kathleen’s. “Well why don’t we go sort it, yeah? Joel can finish himself well enough, I’m sure.” 

Joel smirked as the two padded away. He scrubbed his chest, admiring himself, and idly washed the head of his dick - along with giving it a few more lazy tugs. Tiring of the shower, however, he dried himself off and wandered through the damp apartment to the bedroom. The whole place reeked, and it wasn’t as if Reese and Jackie were good housekeepers in the first place - but he hardly could care. They had a load of good stuff that was definitely worth fencing, an actual bed, and he’d just had first-hand proof that his sex life was still going strong. He barely pulled on a pair of Reese’s sweats before he collapsed on the bed. 

Feeling warm and fuzzy, reveling in the post-coital glow he had been denied for far too long, Joel didn’t even mind when Theresa brought in Kathleen-Angel and started to coo over all the clothes they would need to get for her. 

 

\-------------------------

(Joel and Ste)

Joel strode around the corner with purpose that faltered immediately upon seeing ChezChez. His long legs felt rubbery, and he still had no idea how he’d face Brady. Since he hadn’t planned on doing that today, however, he ducked his head when the door to the club’s balcony opened and practically dove into the Carter and Hay Delicatessen.

Thankfully, the place was empty save for Ste and that looney blonde that lived with Doug. Both were staring at him, the blonde mildly curious - though still dancing to whatever music she had in her earbuds - and Ste in clear surprise. 

Not at all sure of what to do, much less say, Joel took a shaky breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He jerked his chin. “Alright Ste.”

“Joel!” Ste dropped the dough he was kneading and came around to the shop proper. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d gone for good.”

“Aye. I thought so too.” He shoved his hands deeper in the pockets of his leather jacket, terribly self-conscious. At least something must have gotten out around town then. “Theresa came back for Kathleen-Angel.”

Unable to resist clucking about kids - any kids - Ste grinned in commiseration and rolled his eyes. “Ah, I know that. Couldn’t be without me wee bits for too long meself,” he confessed, though he had the grace to exaggerate his tone enough to show he knew how corny it was. Ste was quick to follow up with questions about where he and Theresa had been, how they were. Joel mumbled some niceties about them being fine, things were good, until he felt he could broach the real reason he’d come in.

“Say Ste,” He interrupted the chattering brunet mid-sentence, though Ste hardly seemed to mind. Joel smiled weakly. “You haven’t heard anything from Brendan have you?”

The guarded cast to Ste’s normally feckless expression surprised him. “What do you mean?” Ste puzzled.

Not having much to lose, Joel figured he might as well let it all spill out. “I imagine he’s thinking I’m a right numpty, to put it lightly. He must have been angry when he got back from the coast.”

“Do you not know?” Ste stared at him, one brow arched quizzically. “About what happened with Walker?”

That was not a name Joel wanted to hear, and certainly not hear this soon after the man had helped them load his stepfather’s body into Brady’s trunk. Hoping that the slimey git had finally gotten on the bad side of Brendan, maybe even the bad side of one of Brendan’s contacts, Joel feigned indifference as successfully as he could with his heart pounding in his throat. “Not talked to anyone. Why, does it matter?”

He did not like the way Ste looked away, nor the way the lad needed to wet his lips. “Sommat happened ‘tween Brendan and him after you ran off.” A note of accusation rang in Ste’s voice, though it was brief. The lad shrugged one shoulder. “Brendan never said exactly what. I’ve only gotten slight bits out of Cheryl.” His wide eyes sought out Joel’s. “He was hurt bad, Brendan was. Guess there was an explosion at their old place they used to stay at. Walker ran off. Brendan was goin’ crazy, trying to find him.” Ste tucked his arms against his chest, and spoke as if the next part were more for himself. “The bloody nutter had some sort of revenge in his head.” 

Joel almost wasn’t sure if the lad was talking about Walker or Brady. Fearing the answer, he still had to ask. “What happened?” 

“Well… when he couldn’t get Cheryl…” Ste responded, haltingly, his voice distant. “He came after me.” 

“You?” The Scott’s accent thickened with his incredulousness. “Why you, Ste? You’re just a bloody shopkeep!” Of all the people in the village Walker might target, Ste would have been among the last that Joel would have guessed.

Ste shot him a sharp look. “Ta.”

Swallowing, Joel hastily added, “No offense.”

“Walker… wanted to hurt Brendan by hurting the ones Brendan loved most. You might have dodged a bullet there.” The black humor of his comment hit Ste then. Growling, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Bloody hell that was bad of me.” At Joel’s blank look, the deli owner elaborated. “Walker pulled a gun on me. Was going to kill me, and then Brendan grabbed it away. The gun went off though.” Ste turned his face away, pointedly avoiding both Joel and the deli’s large front window - where he could still place exactly where Riley fell after being shot. He twisted his hands together. “Riley was killed.” Saying it aloud felt unnatural, even two weeks later. The tanned brunet glanced up at Joel, who had paled. Ste offered a half-hearted shrug. “Still doesn’t seem real.”

Joel’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. “I don’t know what to say,” he managed eventually. Inside, his gut roiled.

“Things’ve not been good ‘round here.” Ste stood, smoothing his apron. The Scotsman couldn’t tell if the lad was speaking to him or to himself when the Manc quietly added, “But maybe they haven’t been good for a while.” 

That heavy statement settled over the deli’s small waiting area, a stone in the gut that neither man was willing to acknowledge. To do so would mean they had to admit that things weren’t right in the first place, and neither was sure they could manage that in the face of everything else. 

“Right,” Ste quipped, forcing himself from that path of dark thoughts. He turned to Joel. “You gonna talk to Brendan?”

The same question had plagued Joel since he’d left. “Do you think he’d have me?”

The young Manc - who probably knew Brendan better than anyone - was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was with a bit of gravity that Joel rarely heard from him. “I think he would.” His blue eyes held Joel’s hazel gaze. Another long moment passed between them. Something wavered in the Scotsman’s wide-eyed stare, something that held a plaintive note to Ste. Brendan’s ex nodded, slowly, and backed towards the deli counter. “Tell ya what, you take him some lunch.” He managed a half-smile for the homeless, friendless, terribly young man seated in his deli - the small age gap between them feeling like a burgeoning gulf at this point. 

“I just don’t get it.” Joel followed Ste as the shorter, slimmer man moved behind the deli counter and started laying out sandwich fixings. The Scotsman’s face scrunched up. “Why would Walker snap like that?”

“He always was a bit off the mark, wasn’t he.” Ste busied himself with carving up two thick sourdough rolls, and spreading meats and cheeses over them. His jean-clad companion shook his head.

“A bit off yeah, but he was always trying to control himself.”

“When there’s that level of control that’s needed, Joel,” Ste warned, his voice deeper than usual, “That’s the sign of a man about to burst.” [i]And I should know that better than anyone, me, [/i] Ste thought to himself. He let the conversation die for a bit, lost in his own thoughts.

Watching Ste work behind the counter, Joel finally saw his chance to ask another question that had been eating at him since nearly the first day Walker had arrived in Hollyoaks. As much as he tried to make his voice sound confident, though, he still felt he was a right berk for having missed it if had been obvious to everyone else but him. “Was it that they... “ he began, but trailed off when Ste glanced up at him. His mouth hung open before he spoke again. “Were they ever… you know…” Joel gestured, vaguely, but enough to make clear what he was asking.

Ste’s blank expression twisted into a mask of horror. “Ugh! With Walker?” He shuddered. “That is something I do [i]not[/i] want to imagine.”

“Right?” Joel’s mouth twisted downwards, disgust written in bold across his face. “Bloke is bloody manky. You’d go soft in the middle of it.”

Nodding emphatically in agreement, Ste stopped suddenly. “What?” he asked, incredulous. 

“What?” Joel responded.

A bit bug-eyed, Ste stared. “You... you’ve thought about it?”

“Only ‘cause I couldn’t imagine what that creepy bloke did when he was feelin’ it!” Joel exclaimed, his pale face coloring. 

Not at all sure what to make of it, but glad to hear from at least one other person that Walker was - and always had been - revolting, Ste cracked a grin. “I think you should count yourself lucky you can’t.” He shook any thoughts of Brendan touching that nutter from his head. “But, to answer your question, no, he was police. Detective or something, undercover.” 

Something Ste couldn’t place flashed across Joel’s face, and the young man visibly had to sturdy himself. While the Manc wasn’t sure what, exactly, it was, he could hazard a guess that maybe Walker had been privy to something Joel did not want him to see. At first Ste set about preoccupying himself with the sandwich spreads, pointedly giving Joel a chance to collect himself, when he finally managed to chase down something that might help. “Don’t worry none,” Ste murmured softly, glancing to make sure Leanne was still preoccupied with her music and chopping. “Anything Walker might got, he’s lost when he fled town.”

The relief on Joel’s face was all too evident. Ste could not imagine him ever being the criminal thug he made himself out to be. The lad was just too soft.

A point in his favor, honestly. Ste spoke casually. “Brendan’s not got many on his side now.” He rolled the sandwiches up in tissue and reached for a bag. “Dunno what exactly happened, but seems that Cheryl’s proper mad at him. Walker’s gone crazy. You skipped town.” Ste held Joel’s gaze for a moment. “Not a lot of sympathy with those that’re left.” 

The young Scot’s loud swallow assured him that he’d been thinking about it, if nothing else. While he had never thought much of Warren Fox’s son in the past, Ste wasn’t about to toss away even this small opportunity. He continued to stare at Joel, even as he extended the bag.

Joel hesitated. A day earlier, outside Hollyoaks, he might have snatched the sandwiches and run. As things stood, though, it looked like he and Theresa might be staying a while. He exhaled sharply. “I’ve not got any money.” He forced his jaw not to tense.

Ste blinked, the thought of charging having not even occurred to him. Instead, he just flashed a conspiratorial grin. “I’ll put both on Brendan’s tab, yeah?” When he pressed the bag into the younger man’s chest, Joel had no choice but to take it. The deli owner sucked in a deep, bolstering breath. “Just see that he gets one, alright?”

Not having been on the receiving end of much charity the past few weeks, Joel wasn’t sure what to do. Part of him wanted to open up, ask Ste what he should do - but then he guessed he already knew where Ste stood. Much as the Manc lad might hate to admit it, he was in Brendan’s court, now, as ever. After lingering what felt like an awkwardly long time, he decided to simply take what he had and go. Joel voiced his thanks, tipped the bag, and left.

“Ta,” Ste murmured, watching the young Scotsman go. Leanne moved next to him. At her look, Ste spoke. “Dunno what he’s gonna do.” At her now pointed look, he gestured expansively at the village outside their window. “‘Bout finding something to do for money. Most all he’s got is tied up in that club. Only one who’ll have him is Brendan, and he’s been a right muppet of late.” The trim brunet leaned against the wall in thought.

“Hmm,” Leanne hummed, noncommittally. In truth, Ste doubted she had even been listening. She perked up. “I’m just glad to see a familiar face.” At Ste’s look of surprise - Leanne and Joel had never been on the best of terms, particularly since her spectacular failure as a barmaid at ChezChez - she mimicked Ste’s wave at the window. “Well the whole village has been so empty of late! It’s nice to see [i]someone[/i] I know ‘round here!” The blonde threw her cleaning rag down in disgust, glaring about the empty store. “Even the deli’s been dead.”

Her boss voiced his own frustration. “Not much going on today, that’s for sure.” It worried Ste some if he thought too much about it. Even with nearly six months of passable success, it still felt fragile. Or maybe it was [i]because[/i] those six months had only been passable... 

Ste clapped his hands, dispelling his darker thoughts. He turned to Leanne, his eyes glittering with excitement. “Hey, we got some of that fresh mozzarella in the back. What say you we throw it on some tomato, maybe some of them rolls from this morning. Little pesto, little arugula spread? Make some samples for the folks out after their lunch?”

Never one to turn away from a chance to shirk her day job, Leanne matched the Mancunian’s buzz and threw her rag over her shoulder. “I’m always for samples! Let’s get crackin’, yeah?” The blonde woman hauled the pesto container out of the front case and marched smartly to the back, scooping her finger around the rim and stuffing it in her mouth as she went. “Mmph, this stuff is the best,” she mumbled, helpfully tasting more of Ste’s samples as the spark of creativity took him.

 

\-------------------------

(Brendan Joel)

Hunching his shoulders some against the damp, Joel cut his way through the trainyard. It was, for the most part, to avoid ChezChez, and anyone who might be lurking around it.

Of course, it was just his luck to round one of the box cars and see his former business partner standing right there, as if he was waiting for him. The man’s gray-blue eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and Joel couldn’t help but feel that he had pinned in place. 

 

“Alright, little Foxy?” Brendan’s voice was tight and controlled, and put the younger man immediately on edge.

“Alright,” he managed in response.

“Gotta admit, didn’t think ye’d be back.” It was only after Brady offered that opening that Joel felt relieved enough to notice the other details. That the normally fit, imposing man was leaning on a cane, parts of his face still covered in old bruises. Despite the state of his body, however, his gaze was as sharp as ever. Joel swallowed.

“Didn’t think I’d be either.” Certainly not like this, at the very least - broke, homeless, and as beat up inside as Brendan was outside. The Irishman’s heavy, lidded stare wasn’t doing anything to help matters either. 

Joel tried to wait it out, because he knew it was just another of Brendan’s tricks to keep the upper hand, but then he wavered. Wondering if maybe giving in wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, Brendan was hardly running him out of town right now, and… honestly he was tired of running. 

He lifted the bag, clearing his throat. “You hungry?”

Luck must have been with him, because the Irishman looked at the food looked at him, then shrugged. “We got a lot of catching up to do,” he grunted, “might as well be over lunch.”

The meal was the heartiest food the Scotsman had gotten all week. Perhaps it was good he was so hungry, else he might not have been able to eat anything with the grim tale Brady put together before him. Some of it Joel’d already heard from Ste. Brady filled in the other parts though - the ones that mattered most. What had happened to the body. What had happened at the beach home. Why Walker had come back. That the man wasn’t just after revenge on Brendan - that he was actually looney, completely obsessed, and very, very dangerous. 

After it all, Joel found it hard to believe it was real. Undercover cops turned rogue, turned… into psychopaths. 

“I always thought he was a strange one.” The young man shook his head, his Scottish accent making his voice sound even smaller than usual. “Just thought it was that he were queer.” He glanced at Brady as he said that, but the man didn’t react beyond pursing his lips thoughtfully. The constant weight that had been bubbling about in his gut since the day his stepda showed up in the village boiled up again, and Joel blurted out, “Brendan if he knows about Mick-” 

“Shh. Shhshhshh.” Brendan’s scolding, chastising and familiar, was almost comforting. In a weird sort of way. The Irishman glanced pointedly about the small park they were eating in. “Better not to say that name at all, little Foxy. Too many people in this village like to lurk around corners, hearing things they shouldn’t.” He leaned close. “Your stepda disappeared,” he whispered, “and the stain he left on this world went with him. Walker is disgraced, doesn’t know what happened, who he was, or where he went. Walker has nothing, little Foxy. That’s why you and me are still free.” 

When the older man put it like that, things felt so simple. Not even Theresa had managed to lift that weight from his chest. Still, there was one other thing; Joel’s face twisted as he looked away, not daring to face the man as he confessed. “Brendan, Cheryl knows.”

“I know.” The immediacy of the reply shook him. Joel risked a peek at the dark Irishman, who leaned his chin on the hand over his cane and stared off at nothing. “I know,” he said again, and Joel realized that he wasn’t the only one with lead in his gut to deal with. Vulnerability and Brendan did not go together. He’d seen the man stumble, even seen him fail, but there were only two people who ever seemed to get at the core of who Brady was. The young Scot’s mouth worked as struggled to offer something of worth.

“Maybe after Lynnsey’s funeral she’ll come ‘round?” he croaked, finally, though it felt weak. 

The reaction however, was not what he thought he’d get. Brady’s gaze snapped to him, the man’s face awash with confusion. “What do you mean Lynnsey’s funer- what?” He seemed genuinely puzzled, before something seemed to click and a warring mix of two emotions Joel couldn’t identify clouded everything. “They - they set a date?”

“The funeral is next week.” He searched Brady’s face for any sign of his thoughts. “Did… did noone tell you?” The darkening of the dark-haired man’s face made it clear no one had. Joel bit his lip, pained. “Brendan I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” he repeated.

Overcome by whatever was going on inside, the man just nodded his head, more times than necessary, and patted Joel’s thigh. “Just keep an eye out for trouble.” He stood without looking at the younger man. “Glad yer back, little Foxy.”

Whatever else he was feeling, Joel couldn’t deny the spark of gratefulness he felt, hearing that. Brendan got two steps before he paused and added, “If you see Steven… thank him for the sandwich for me will yeh?”

He didn’t wait for a response. Joel stayed seated, watching the man - whom he at once admired, feared, idealized, and distrusted - hobble away, and couldn’t help but wonder that maybe it had been right to come back. Maybe even that he never should have left.

 

\-------------------------

(Brendan Cheryl)

Despite the damp, Cheryl’s shoes still clacked on the steps to her flat. She dug through her purse, hoping to have enough cash on hand to get in and out without bumping into her brother. Just her luck, of course, that he was out front. 

Brendan was on the phone. He seemed distracted, much more agitated than usual - not that she noticed. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll talk to her,” he said to whomever. At if he was busy she might be able to slip by without a confrontation. Cheryl feigned trying to find her keys, just as Brendan saw her from the corner of his eye. “Gotta go.” He snapped the phone shut and limped over. “Cheryl!”

She was already shaking her head. “I haven’t the time, Brendan.” 

He ignored her. “Spoke to Joel.”

The blonde whirled on him. “Ye leave that wee lad alone!” Brendan’s immediate flinch took some of the heat from her voice, though not the sting in her following words. “Ye’ve caused him enough trouble. Just like ye have with everyone else.”

“Oh? Ye going to help him then?” Even beaten, her brother had never been one to give up. 

Lacking a response, Cheryl retreated to her anger. “Whatever help ye think ye can give’ll only make things worse for him. That’s what ye do.”

“He’s homeless and supporting a McQueen, Chez.”

It was the patronizing tone - more than the nickname - that set her off. The gall of the man to throw stones from his glass house! The Belfast woman’s eyes sparked. “She may not be much, but whatever else she is, Theresa is worlds better than you!”

She also was not the right person to defend to Brendan Brady. The lightning that flashed in his eyes was quickly contained, though it still showed in the sheer heat in his voice. Her brother scoffed loudly, [i]tsk[/i]ing to himself twice before he pulled himself together enough to respond. He waggled a finger at her.

“Oh ho,” he huffed, “You might be wanting to know her better before you say [i]that[/i] again.”

It was so out of place that she just stood there, nonplussed. “What?” She knew Theresa had no love for her brother - it surprised her to hear Brendan felt that way in return. Cheryl almost demanded to know what Theresa had done to get on his bad side - then she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to care. She stalked past him. “No. No. I’m too busy to be dealing with ye right now.”

Her best friend needed her. Whatever bullshit Brendan was pulling out now just did not matter.

“I know about Lynns’s funeral.”

Her brother’s voice caught her short. “So?” she asked, schooling herself to appear neutral.

Brendan stared at her. “So ye weren’t going to tell me?” 

Cheryl lifted her chin imperiously. “I don’t have to tell ye anything. Ye’ve made that clear on yer part, haven’t ye?”

Taken aback by the turn in his sister’s reasoning, the dark-haired Irishman fumbled for a moment before he realized what was happening. His tone was both incredulous and biting. “Is this what it’s going to be, Chez? Lynns’s funeral is just a way of getting back at me?”

“Don’t ye [b]dare[/b] accuse me of anything! I may not have protected Lynnsey from ye and yer - yer [i]associates[/i] before, but I’ll be damned if I let ye spoil her death!”

“Protect her from [i]me[/i]?!” The sparks flying between them could have ignited the whole block. Both Bradys loomed into each other, almost nose to nose. Brendan breathed noisily, through his nose. “You don’t know what I have done for her. What [i]I[/i] have to live with.” 

No, she didn’t. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care, and as much as there was some niggling part of her brain that wondered what other secrets he’d kept - he was always full of secrets - his secrets were exactly what she was getting away from. For one of the few times in her life, she stared him down without giving in.

Something seemed to shift in Brendan then. Without fuel, his temper burned out. Even as she watched his shoulders stop heaving she felt the same emptiness too. Instead of the fire she was relying on to guard against him, she was just left cold. 

Brendan looked away first, his blue eyes carefully not meeting hers. “She was my friend too, Chez. Let me do something.”

Cheryl shook her head. “There’s nothing to be done Brendan.” He tried to offer to pay for something, anything, but she didn’t want his money, and certainly didn’t want him. She said no to his offer to help, to be there, to even attend. In fact, it wasn’t until he begged her to get orchids that she even felt herself sway. After all, she’d never known Lynnsey hated lilies. And they were all she’d ordered, because she remembered the story Brendan shared about the guy dating Lynnsey yeah, but… but she’d never known why Lynnsey had passed the lilies on. Cheryl had just remembered the lilies, because Brendan was the one who always noticed the little things like that. He always had been.

“Flowers were already ordered,” she murmured. It hurt to fight about this, but… she didn’t know what else to do. 

Not when he was still staring at her, like that. Like they could somehow still be family. 

“Let me change the order then,” he begged. “Or get them to or… or do something, Chez. She’s my friend too.”

The lump in her throat made it too hard to speak, so she just nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay, buy her orchids.” Then, before Brendan could say anything else that would make her question her resolve, she turned and pushed into their flat. 

Left outside, Brendan took a deep, steadying breath and braced himself against the rail. Everything seemed to hurt. 

 

\--------------------

(Brendan and Joel)

Lacking anything better to do, Joel leaned against a wall near his old Hollyoaks haunts and hoped nobody would try to strike up more conversation with him. Thankfully most of the former sixth-formers weren’t around, but the young Scot wasn’t sure how many more insipid comments about his absence he could take. Or more nosey inquiries. Enough busy-bodies at the Dog in the Pond had driven him away from there. What he really wanted was to think - or else find guidance on what he had to do next. 

A man in blue jeans and a sharp leather jacket not unlike his own hobbled by, moving quickly despite the cane. Recognizing him, Joel called out. “Where are you off to?” he asked, catching up to his dark-haired former boss, possibly current business parnter.

“Get some flowers.” Brendan cocked his head, as if thinking to himself. “Got a funeral coming up here.”

Joel’s mouth tightened. He missed Lynnsey, but he did not know if his grief had any place beside Brendan’s. After all, Brady was the one that had found what little of her remained. Instead, they walked in silence until they rounded the Hollyoaks arches and found the shoppes.

It was a busy enough afternoon. People moved up and down both sides of the street, bags in hand. Leanne and Ste, both in blue aprons, had platters of some sort of puffy white cheese, green paste, and tomato on bits of toast. Having never passed up an opportunity to eat, and only rarely passing up on a chance to hassle Ste, Brendan swung over to pick at them. Leanne paid them no mind, being busy gabbing with a student. He plucked two off Leanne’s tray with one hand, using the other to pass a third to his companion. 

Joel wrinkled his nose. “What’s this? Looks funny.”

Brendan just leveled a glare at the younger man and forced the bit of food in his mouth. Joel resisted, but the burst of fresh tomato, some exotic sort of cheese, and something else won him over. He chewed thoughtfully as Ste, unable to hang back drew closer.

Snatching two more samples, this time off Ste’s tray, Brendan tipped his head. “Bit of some fancy fare there, Steven. Trying to expose this lot to some class?”

A slight blush appeared in Ste’s cheeks. His voice was low, some might even say warm. “We’ve lots of the stuff an’ it’s a slow day at the shop.” He might have said more, but Leanne interjected herself. “So we decided - hey, sample day!” she exclaimed. 

The Irishman snorted, picking up another little sandwich and stuffing it in his mouth. Definitely fresh mozzarella, basil, maybe a little arugula. He scoffed through the food in his cheeks. “You’re kidding me. You’re giving this stuff out as samples? The deli must be doing better than I thought.” 

Ste bristled at his ex’s remark - both for the presumption and the protectiveness underneath. “We’ll make it back in sales. That’s how this works, Brendan.” He spoke slowly, adopting a derisive tone the Irishman had come to know quite well. Bubbling beside him, Leanne helpfully added, “People come back to deli after we get the word out!”

“About arugula and mozzarella?” Brendan’s dark eyebrows lifted. “In Hollyoaks?” The nightclub owner, familiar the fickle nature of the villagers, cast his eyes about the people that bustled by. He turned back to the man who’d nearly grown up in the village, whom he thought would have known better. “Ye know,” he began, “this is the same village that thought that fish and chips chain from London was ‘too exotic’. Let it close in less than a month.”

Ste drew a breath to respond, taking a second too long to convey full confidence. “Right, and maybe this’ll be the excitement they need to hook ‘em!” He smiled, adding, “‘Sides, I can’t hardly keep the stuff on me shelves as it is!”

Beside him, Leanne leapt to her boss’s defense. “Oh yeah, I’m always eating this stuff. Gobble it down every break I get.” She helpfully demonstrated how quickly she could put a few bites away - almost as quickly as Brendan did. She mumbled through stuffed cheeks. “Put tons of it on literally every sandwich I make. The customers love it!”

The blitheness with which the two clung to their ignorance bordered on the offensive. “You put the four quid cheese on every five quid sandwich?” 

“Yeah!” Leanne exclaimed, nattering on that it was one of the little ‘perks’ she liked to provide the customers. His eyes flicked to watch the color drain from Ste’s face as the question sank in. Brendan made sure Ste saw his smirk before he grabbed Joel’s arm and pulled him away, leaving the Manc and his employee to an increasingly heated, long overdue conversation. 

“One thing to keep in mind, little Foxy,” Brendan muttered, slowing as they neared the florist’s. “Never trust anyone else to do their job without buggering it all up.” The mustached man stopped and glanced from ChezChez to Joel. He slapped the Scotsman’s chest with the back of one hand. “Speaking of, you’re always welcome back at the club - provided you get some distance from the McQueen girl.”

Scowling, Joel pushed to defend the girl who had just convinced him to run away - and then return just as quick. “What have you got against Theresa? She’s done nothing, Brendan!”

The taller man leaned in, uncomfortably close. He whispered, “You and I both know that ‘empty-headed bint’ routine she pulls out ain’t the real thing.” His sharp blue eyes locked Joel’s gaze. “People are always after something. Ask yourself; how much do you think that you and her are after the same thing right now?” 

The Scottish lad wanted to pull away, wanted to grimace and ignore the man who’d put his murderer father in prison. He loathed when Brendan got weird like this. Unfortunately, unpleasant as he was, there was usually a reason for it.

Inhaling sharply, Brendan reiterated his point, this time jabbing Joel’s chest for emphasis. “Tell me, Joel, do you think what she’s after, and what you’re after, are the same thing?” Again, his blue eyes didn’t break contact.

Joel’s mouth worked, but he had no answer. 

“Not sure? Think on it then.” As if a curtain had fallen, his boss’s intensity disappeared. Brendan sniffed and clapped the lad’s shoulder, and strode into the florist’s. 

Unsure of what to do, mostly with regards to the decision he could sense looming in the distance, Joel thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and stalked off. Behind him, Ste wrenched the sandwich platter out of a squawking Leanne’s hands and stormed back to his deli.

**Author's Note:**

> comments, good or bad alike, are nice :)


End file.
